she's like a shine on your shoes (or hearing the blues)
by anonymous-constellations
Summary: a teaser of an idea I had, basically titled: "What If Stephanie Brown Found Out She Was Bruce Wayne's Biological Daughter and Decided To Confront Him For Blackmail To Get Money For Her Mom's Rehab But Oops! He Decides To Become Her Dad Instead!" Not a full narrative, just non-linear vignettes
1. Chapter 1

**December 29th **

"Get in the car."

Stephanie eyed the Bugatti. "My mother told me not to get into cars with strange men."

Bruce halted, already halfway in the front seat. He stepped back out. "A minute ago you were blackmailing me. You have no problem going to a strange man's house and demanding that he pay for rehab services."

"Yeah but you're my biological father."

"Allegedly." She shifted her feet. "Which is why we're going to the lab for a DNA test."

Stephanie bit her lip. "Maybe I could call an Uber?"

Bruce sighed. "That's a strange man too."

"He's vetted! He's gone through loads of security!"

"In Gotham city?" He shook his head. "How many times have you ubered across the city?"

"A couple of times?" At his pointed look, she shrugged. "Never. It's fine."

"I think you'd be better off going with me."

"I don't think so."

Bruce sighed loudly.

* * *

**January 4th**

"You _bitch_."

He turned around in his seat, surprised. "Stephanie?"

"Fuck you," she spit, body trembling in anger. "Fuck you all the way to hell. That wasn't the deal."

Bruce stood up, eyeing the door behind her. Employees kept their heads down, pretending not to notice the spectacle in his office. He held back a sigh. "What is going on?"

She threw an envelope at him. It missed and bounced off his desk. He leaned over to pick it up. "Custody papers. That wasn't the deal. You said you'd pay for rehab, you said—"

"I said I would and I have," Bruce retorted. "I never mentioned custody."

"Because I was supposed to stay with my mom!" she shrieked. Her eyes swept across the room wildly, as if looking for something to throw. Bruce, reading her mind, stepped in front of his desk, guarding the heavy desk ornaments.

"Stephanie," he began, then narrowed his eyes at her scoff. "_Stephanie_," he repeated, tone firm. "You yourself mentioned many times how your mother's addiction was an unwieldy burden. That you cut school to pick up work, that you often went hungry to pay for bills."

"So what?!" She tugged at her hair agitatedly. "You said you'd pay for rehab and then we'd be fine. That was the deal, you just don't get to change things because I'm white trash and you're a stupid big business man!"

"Think about this, Stephanie," he said, "do you honestly think you can succeed in that environment?"

"Shut up," she spat. "I'm fine. Why do you care?"

"Why do you think I care?"

"Because you're a controlling prick!"

"Hey!" He frowned. "If we're going to be having this conversation, we can do it politely."

"Fuck you!" she shouted. "You don't get to take everything from me and then get pissy when I call you on it!"

"Stop it."

"No! This wasn't the deal!"

"The deal was that I would 'take care of things,'" he paraphrased her words. He stepped forward. "Your mother did not take care of you, she is not in the position to take care of you. I am, and I will."

"No you won't," she insisted. She set her chin, staring up at him. "I won't stay with you."

He didn't break her gaze. "Then no rehab."

Silence.

"I fucking _hate you_," she hissed. She clenched her fists at her sides. "I hope you choke on your own spit, I hate you, I hate you so much, fuck you, FUCK Y—"

Bruce stepped away, going around desk. "If that's what it takes to keep you safe, fine," he said evenly.

"You don't give a shit about me! If you did you'd let me stay with my mom!"

"I very much do give a shit about you, that's why you're standing in my office and not sitting in an alleyway down 9th street." He interrupted her before she could call him another name. "How did you get here?"

She paused. "None of your business."

He narrowed his eyes. "Does Alfred know you're here?"

"I said it was none of your business!"

She threw open the door and stomped out of the office floor. Bruce sighed and picked up his office phone. Sandra picked up within a moment, no doubt overhearing their conversation.

"I've got it," the secretary assured him. "Everything is already rescheduled."

Bruce thanked her then strode out of the office. Eyeing the elevator indicator, he passed it and took the stairs.

He had a volatile fourteen year old to drive home.

* * *

**March** **15th**

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing," Steph replied, shoving her half-finished costume under the bed.

She assumed Bruce couldn't hear her accelerated heartbeat, but he was weirdly like a vampire anyways, so she wouldn't be surprised. He was looking at her suspiciously. Her lips downturned. Two months in the household and she still was being watched like a prisoner. "Drugs," she amended her original answer. "Lots and lots of drugs. I've got an entire line of coke on the floor if you want a sniff. Then I've got a blunt under my pillow, if you want to smoke. You know, regular teenager stuff."

He sighed. Steph always thought that made him look constipated.

"Are you joining us for dinner?" he asked, voice devoid of any expectation.

She frowned again. Sure, she had rejected going down to dinner every single time before, but that didn't mean he had to act like it was a burden to ask her. Dinner was the only time they even saw each other, and he acted like asking her about it was too much. That was exactly why she didn't like him. He was rude and demanding and stupid.

"Are you giving custody back to my mom?"

"No."

"Then no."

He turned to go, but not before she muttered under her breath, "Buffalo butt bastard" and he immediately turned around.

"Okay," he snapped, "How about this: you can have your meals in here for the weekend. Since you're so fond of your room, you can stay here."

"Fine!" she shot back. "Better company anyways!"

He rolled his eyes and made to shut the door.

"Wait."

He paused, hand on the doorknob. She stood, making sure not to kick the costume beneath her bed again. Once was fine, twice and he might get suspicious. "Are you going to be gone all weekend?"

He was watching her, but his normally flinty blue eyes softened. "Yes," he admitted.

"Oh. Okay."

He peered at her. She really wasn't a bad kid. Lots of attitude, that was true, but she had been taking care of her mother since she was eight. She was a hard worker and Alfred had even reported her recent kindness to Tim. No doubt she was lonely, it being spring break. However, Stephanie didn't seem like the type of person to be unkind. She likely enjoyed Tim's company even without an incentive. She was a nice girl. Something about Bruce just rubbed her the wrong way, apparently.

His seizure of custody did not help matters, but that could not be helped. He wasn't going to stand by and let a fourteen year old provide for her household. Especially his fourteen year old.

She was biting her lip, unsure. He swallowed. She really had no idea how young she was.

"Did you need anything?" he asked, voice soft. If she did, he would do it. Hell, even if she asked for her sentence to be lifted, he'd do it. Bruce just wanted…the best for her. And it was straining to be fighting against the very person he was trying so hard for.

So yes, he would do whatever she asked. He just needed to make some ground with her, and that meant leeway, he'd take it.

She met his eyes.

"No."

Her reply was brusque, clipped.

"I just wanted to make sure I wouldn't see you."

"Glad to be of service," he bit back, and closed the door behind him.

Steph gazed after him. So she was sort of grounded. Who even cared. It gave her the perfect excuse to stay in her room and work on her costume. She knelt down, fishing it out from under her bed. The purple fabric gleamed up at her. She really hoped that no one noticed that she had taken the drapes from the back room…


	2. Chapter 2

**January**

"You are an indomitably naughty child," Bruce hissed, ripping the fork from his sleeve.

Instantly her face crumpled. "I'm not," she sniffed, tears filling her eyes.

Bruce's tug had knocked over a water glass. "Not what," he said, mopping up the mess with his napkin.

"Not naughty!" she cried. "I'm _traumatized_!"

Bruce halted. Stephanie was, strangely, in genuine hysterics. "Stephanie," he said lowly, "Steph, people are staring."

"You're a mean dad!"

Everyone in the restaurant had stopped conversing; instead, they leaned forward, glancing at the table in the corner of the room. The back of Bruce's neck prickled.

"Why are you doing this," he whispered.

"Because you're m-mean to m-me!" she sobbed.

"Sir?"

Bruce glanced up. "This isn't for real," he assured the waitress. "She's just—"

"You always tell me I'm stupid and dumb!" she said.

"I _do not_—"

"Would you like a glass of water, honey?" the waitress asked Stephanie. She sniffled and nodded.

"He knocked my cup over," she told the waitress.

Bruce almost shifted in his seat. "Not on purpose."

"I'll get you another glass," the waitress assured her, seemingly ignoring Bruce.

Once she had stepped away and Stephanie had calmed down somewhat, he leaned forward. "What's going on?" he demanded.

Stephanie turned to look at him, eyes still red and wet. There were tear marks on her face and she almost looked sweet, in a pathetic way. "If you don't change the custody agreement," she whispered in a sing-song, "then I'm going to ruin your reputation."

Bruce sat back.

* * *

**January**

"Hi," said the strange girl sitting in the middle of the foyer. A puzzle stretched out in front of her.

"Hi," said Tim, setting down his backpack near the door. He didn't take off his shoes.

"Did he kidnap you too?"

He blinked. "What?"

"Bruce Wayne, child kidnapper extraordinaire?" She stuck out her tongue, fitting a piece in at the edge. She looked up. "Could you grab that piece by your foot?"

Tim looked down. He knelt down and picked it up, sidling over. "Here."

"Thanks." She brushed her bangs out of her eyes and grinned. "You can sit down, if you want."

Tim sat.

The strange girl furrowed her brow. "What do you think?" she asked. She tapped against the halfway finished puzzle.

Tim cast an eye over it. "What do I think about what?"

"This corner piece. Life. Your kidnapping."

"He didn't kidnap me."

"Ah." She nodded. "So you're a ransom volunteer. Different strokes for different folks."

Tim laughed a little, standing up. "Is Bruce here?" he asked. The golden haired girl shook her head. "Hey, I'm sorry, I didn't introduce myself." He stuck out a hand. "I'm Tim Drake."

She shook his hand, still sitting on the ground. "Stephanie. I've been kidnapped."

"You keep saying that," he said, gazing around the foyer.

She shrugged, sitting on her knees and propping herself up. "I'm looking out for the day the SWAT team comes through the door. Might as well make their mission quick."

A door slammed outside.

"Gotta go," Stephanie informed him. Before he could reply she spun on her heel and dashed upstairs, accompanied by the stomp of footsteps just outside the door. The minute she was out of sight, Bruce opened the front door.

"Where is she?" he demanded, not bothering to close the door behind him.

"Uh." Tim watched him prowl around the room. "Who?"

Bruce growled in his throat, seemingly aware that she wasn't in the foyer. "I know what she did. I KNOW WHAT YOU DID!" he shouted up the stairs.

"Um," said Tim, helpfully.

"I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR ME."

"Ahem."

"YOUNG LADY IF YOU THINK—"

"Uh. Bruce?"

Bruce whipped around to look at him. Tim waved sheepishly.

* * *

**March**

"Oh my god!" A shadow fell over him. Cool fingers touched his head, tentatively feeling his brow. "Are you okay?!"

Tim blinked. A voice was rambling in the background of his thoughts, but he didn't pay much attention. Head. Head hurt. Brick. Blood? He touched his head. No blood. Blink. Girl. Girl? Girl brick? Voice. Familiar voice. Girl voice. Girl voice brick. Forget the brick. Focus on the voice. Girl, voice, familiar. Familiar girl's voice.

He looked up at the masked figure above him.

Stephanie.

Stephanie Brown.

Bruce's daughter.

Out on the streets. In a mask. With a brick.

"Holy shit," he breathed.

* * *

**May**

"You've got to go."

Spoiler set her jaw. "I'm not going anywhere," she told him firmly. She crossed her arms. "This is my problem, and I'm seeing it through."

"No, you don't understand," Tim pleaded. He tugged on her wrist. She pulled against him. "He's coming. You've got to go."

"Who?" She stopped struggling. "Batman? You're afraid of _Batman_ seeing me?"

"Please," Tim begged. "If you do nothing else for me in your life, please understand that you've got to go."

She peered at him. "Robin, are you okay?"

He almost whimpered. "No," he told her honestly. "I am very much not okay."

"Why are you hiding Batman from me? Robin, are you in trouble with him?"

"I'm not," he said. "And it's more like I'm trying to hide _you_ from Batman."

She pulled her wrist from his grip. "Why?" she demanded. "I'm not doing anything wrong."

"On the contrary."

"This is MY city!" she snapped. "I get to defend it just as much as you do! If there's room for a Batman, there's room for a Spoiler!"

Tim felt his presence rather than heard it. "Oh my god." He closed his eyes.

"What?" she asked irritably. "Afraid of someone actually doing something about Cluemaster? I know it's not a priority for someone important like Batman and Robin, but you've had plenty of time to figure it out. It's been weeks, Robin! And he's walked free! I've been out here trying to spoil his plans, and I've done it on my own! You don't get to come in at the last minute and tell me to back off! So I'm just going to keep doing what I'm doing, Batman and Robin be damned!"

"I'm sorry," he said, addressing the area behind her.

"What are you even—" A hand clamped on her shoulder and whirled her around.

Lightning flashed.

Her eyes widened.

There, standing a clear foot above her, was the masked behemoth known as Batman.


	3. Chapter 3

**February**

"Boss?"

"I'll talk to him in a minute, Sandra," Bruce said absentmindedly, looking over the merger. Lucius had dropped these documents off at his desk personally, so he knew he must be attentive. The man knew of Bruce's "eye for detail," to put it lightly, and trusted him to catch anything the lawyers hadn't.

"Wow," spoke a very familiar and very grating voice, "no wonder you keep candies at your desk. He sucks the fun out of even staring at him."

Bruce looked up and immediately wished he hadn't.

"Stephanie." He closed his eyes. "Why."

"I want you to suffer."

Bruce opened his eyes. She was still there, as was Sandra, who, traitorously, was biting her lip and trying not to look amused.

"Thank you, Sandra," he said.

"Anytime, boss," replied the secretary, closing the door behind her.

Bruce looked at his fourteen year old. She was tugging on her hoodie strings, which hid her Gotham Academy uniform. She kicked the carpet while she explored the corner of his office. He watched her, exasperated and fond and irritated at himself for both of these feelings.

"I won't ask how you got here."

"Uber."

He resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Why aren't you at school?"

"Because I don't want to be?" At his look she amended, "Also because I demand liberation. Give me custody or give me death."

Bruce stood, gesturing her over. Stephanie went, albeit slowly. Once she reached his desk, he pointed to his chair and she sat down.

"I'm not a dog," she muttered sullenly.

"Of course not," said Bruce. He grabbed the documents off his desk. "You're truant."

"You're a loser."

"Okay."

"And dumb."

"Alright."

"And your shoes are ugly."

"What?"

She smirked at his offense. "I think you should get rid of that pair specifically. It's not flattering at all and—hey!"

Bruce watched her stand and race across the room, jiggling the lock. She glowered at him through the glass door, beating her fists against it and trying to be heard over the soundproofed door. Really, Bruce observed, watching her mouth obscenities, he should have invested in soundproofing his office sooner. It had undeniable perks.

* * *

The first time she escaped was the worst. An interruption of the merger meeting. Her eyes went wide, for even Stephanie's moxie had limits.

But her fear disappeared within a moment, for she waltzed into the office and announced, "Tea, gentlemen? Coffee? Candy? Cigarettes?"

They were amused. Bruce was not.

"Excuse me," he apologized.

Back into the office she went.

* * *

The second time she escaped, it ended with him going down to the mailroom. Apparently apocalyptic chaos had occurred; at least, according to Marty, postmaster to WE.

"If you put me in again," Stephanie informed him, "I'll spit in your food."

"How did you even get out?" he asked, waving off her threat.

"Sandra."

He locked the door behind him. She flipped him off.

* * *

The third time she escaped, she told him the truth.

That came later, after he had caught her running down the halls with "acquisitions" from HR.

"Sandra didn't let you out," he said.

She crossed her arms. "No," she bit out. Then she brightened. "I can escape any room or closet or cupboard in under four minutes, every time."

"Interesting." Into his office she went. "Next time, do it in under two. Then you can stay out." It was near lunchtime anyway.

* * *

The fourth time she escaped, he was waiting for her.

"A minute and twenty seconds," he said, not bothering to look at his watch. "Not bad."

She was flushed, hair falling out of her scrunchie. "You're a psycho," she spat. He stepped aside to let her into the elevator first. She elbowed her way in, on the defensive just in case he tried to put her in the office again.

"I was thinking we could get lu—" he began, but stopped. Stephanie had pressed every single elevator button. They lit up the wall, all 104 of them.

_Ding_.

"Damn," she muttered. "Now I gotta pee."

* * *

"Is it good?"

Bruce paused mid-bite. "Yes."

She laid her chin on her hands, elbows sprawled across the table. "I hope you choke on it," she said with a grin.

He met her eyes. "Eat your sandwich."

She ate it through her grin, which was actually rather gross to look at. Alfred was going to have his hands full with her. Etiquette lessons might be a nightmare.

He took a sip of his coffee. She watched him, eyeing the cup quizzically. "Do you want some?"

She shook her head.

Alright then. "What is it you really want?"

She looked confused. "Like, in life?"

He almost smiled. "No. Right now. Why did you really come to the office?"

"I told you already," she complained. "I'm here to make your life hell until you sign over custody."

He sighed. "Steph," he said, "it's been weeks of this. Is this really something you want to continue?"

She set her jaw. "I'm stubborn," she told him.

"So am I," he said wearily.

"Why is it that you get to be stubborn and I don't, huh? Why do you get to win? It's no skin off your nose if you do. It messes up my entire life if I don't. Why don't you just give me this?"

"I don't think you really understand what's going on here."

"Don't do that. Don't act like I'm stupid and too babyish to even know what's going on in my own life."

"I'm not saying that."

"It seems like you are!"

"I'm not."

She exhaled harshly and rolled her eyes.

"I'm not," he repeated. "Let's look at this from another perspective. Why do you want to stay with your mother?"

"Because she's my mom!" she said, slamming her hands onto the table. "Maybe that seems strange to a robot like you, but generally you like your family!"

Bruce was silent.

"Why are you staring at me like that?"

"I'm waiting for you to go on," he said. "You always say I don't listen. I'm listening now."

Stephanie's eyebrows rose. "Huh?"

"Whatever you want to say," he said, taking another sip of his coffee, "say it. I'm all ears. No judgement. No stubbornness. I just want to understand so we can move forward from this."

"I don't want to move forward," she said mulishly.

"Well, I do," he told her. "I want things to be different. I don't want to be fighting anymore."

She perked considerably at that. "Because I'm wearing you down?"

"Because you're my family, and generally you like your family," he repeated her words back to her. For some fateful reason, he hadn't known his daughter for the first fourteen years of her life. Now she was here, in front of him, and instead of a blessing, she was at his throat. He hadn't been doing much better. He couldn't count of his fingers how many times he had lost it with her, yelling back and snapping unkind words. It didn't paint a good picture of his parenting.

It was…difficult…being a parent now. He never thought—Jason had been—

Bruce's throat tightened.

Stephanie was watching him, once more picking up on his emotions more than his words. She nodded towards his cup. "Can I?"

He pushed the coffee over. "If you're amenable to it," he said as she picked up the cup, "I would like us to try something el—"

_Crash_!

He closed his eyes. Without saying a word, he snatched a napkin off the table and went to clean up what Stephanie had thrown against the wall. Thrown. Like a goddamn animal.

He was barely out of his seat before he heard a wet retching sound behind him. Bruce whipped around to see Stephanie leaning forward in her seat, over his lunch.

His fists clenched, coffee leaking across the floor to stick to his shoes.

She sat back, meeting his eyes. "I told you I'd spit in your food."


	4. Chapter 4

**May**

"You don't know a thing about girls, do you?"

Bruce caught the ball in his mitt, looking considerate. "Well," he said, winding up, "you are my first daughter."

Steph caught the ball. "That you know of." She threw it back.

He caught it. "I suppose you could say that."

"Do you think any other kids are going to pop out of the woodwork?"

He paused for a moment. "I don't think so," he admitted. There had been. Once. Talia. But they had lost the baby, and the miscarriage drove a wedge between them that he hadn't been able to cross. She returned to her father within the week. He threw the ball. Some husband he was, even if it was only for a month.

She caught it. "You know what we should play?"

He looked at her grimly. "We're not playing "gopher" again," he said.

She laughed, throwing the ball. "I still can't believe you fell for that."

He couldn't either. But he had been open to bonding with Stephanie, and had jumped at the chance when she said she needed help building her new bookcase. She also said that she wanted to play "gopher," which had turned out to be whack-a-mole with a hammer and his hands. He had ended up shouting at her and she had retaliated by smashing a hole through the hallway with the hammer. Bruce grimaced; not their best day.

"I think we should play the truth game," she said, swinging her arms and stretching them across her chest.

"What's the truth game?"

"It's truth or dare, only it's truth because dares are boring."

He threw the ball. "Is that so?"

"Uh huh." She caught it. "Trisha Campanella once dared me to give her my powerpuff bracelet and I had to, since it was a dare. I haven't played since."

"Alright," he said, catching the ball. "In observance of Trisha Campanella."

"I'll start. What's your favorite color?"

"Black," he replied.

"Emo. Your turn."

He threw the ball, considerate. "What do you want to be when you grow up?"

She caught it. "Dead. Just kidding," she said at his stern look. "Financially stable, I guess? I hadn't really thought about it. I'm not even sure if I'll get to go to college. Maybe a nurse?" She threw the ball. "Do you like caviar?"

He caught it. "It's okay. I prefer lobster canapés."

"I've never had either."

"I'll have Alfred make some."

She hummed, catching the ball.

"What did you want for Christmas that you never got?"

"Hmm. Lots of things. Maybe a bike?" She threw. "What was Jason like?"

His heart stuttered.

"_B?" Small hands poked at his face. "You in there, pops?"_

_Bruce smiled down at the boy. "Of course, Jay. What did you think of the exhibit?"_

_Jason shrugged, easy and loose in that thirteen year old way. It was the summer before ninth grade, and he had gotten straight A's in the last quarter. He had expressed an interest in the Egyptology exhibit passing through Gotham, and Bruce had cancelled three appointments to make that possible. He didn't mind. Who could mind when it was for Jay? Sweet, impossible Jaylad, all freckles and floppy hair and hard-won opinions about Wuthering Heights._

"_It is a love story, in that there is an absence of love," he had argued, indignant in blue cotton pajamas that were too long for him. Bruce hadn't disagreed, merely had let his son argue multiple points as if in front of a committee. He had cared so much. He always had cared too much. Bleeding heart, bleeding head, bleeding bleeding bleeding._

_Oh __**Jay Jay Jay**__ —_

"Bruce?"

He blinked. The sunlight was fading, setting the evening all golden.

"Streams of gold, let me grow old," Jason had often sing-songed, gazing over the garden. He could practically hear the young voice in his ear. But another face was in front of him, round and small with a little furrowed brow. Her blonde hair stuck out in pigtails.

Streams of gold.

"I," he began, but stopped. He swallowed, coming to. The baseball lay at his feet. He knelt down to grab it.

Grass rustled near his ears. "We don't have to play anymore," said Steph.

"No," he ground out, in pain and not quite knowing why. It hurt, it physically hurt. But he...it had been years. Years. Why did it—how could he think—Jay, _why_ —

"I don't want to play anymore, okay? It's alright."

Bruce shook his head. He was still kneeling.

A moment later Stephanie sat beside him, legs criss-cross. "I'm not going to leave you out here," she told him. "So I'm just going to sit here for a bit until you feel a bit better. Then we can go inside. Alright?"

He nodded, eyes closed.

Several minutes later there were rustling sounds, and he opened his eyes to see hands pluck the wildflowers from the ground. He must have made a sound, for Stephanie explained, "I'm making a daisy chain. I used to make them all the time in elementary school. Megan Harris could make them best, but I was second best, so lots of girls asked me to make them. I also made friendship bracelets, but they had to provide the thread. I got a library book on the different patterns and everything."

He hummed again, so she kept going.

"I used to love making crafts and cards and all that. I can do origami, but not very well. I could probably be better at it if I practiced, but sometimes I feel like I'm lying to myself over it. It's funny, origami always causes breakdowns, but it leads to a lot of self-introspection. I sometimes give up if I can't get something down right away, which is dumb, but it happens. I feel stupid if I don't do things right the first time. I don't have to be the best, but I have to be _good_ , you know? If not, I feel useless. I don't know what that says about me, but that's why I don't like to do origami. I was thinking of picking up knitting, but I don't know if that will fit my personality. I'm sort of impatient. I mean, I'm stubborn. I persevere, but sometimes it's just battering my head against the wall like a ram. Life sort of feels that way sometimes. But I keep battering, because if not then I'll have to give up, and I don't know what that means then. I've had to work for everything I have, so I'm not in the habit of giving up. Not a lot of things were given to me. I'm thankful for what was, but it does give a girl a complex. Do you ever get frustrated because everything seems to be easier for everybody else?" She plucked at a daisy, adding it to the chain. "Like they all got a blueprint and they've got it figured out, and life just opens itself for them. But you have no clue and it's like you're pretending to be a person, and life can tell you're an imposter. Maybe you only get what you think you deserve, you know? Self-allocated karma. I'm kind of being a bummer. I'll talk about something else."

Bruce made a noise again, almost a sound of protest, but it was too quiet for her to notice.

"Kennedy Laurence has a birthday party next month. She invited me at the end of the school year. She seems nice. Kind of sheltered, but I guess everyone sort of is, in their own way. You wouldn't think I was, but my mind is constantly being blown in different ways by being here. I think it's sort of funny that you have an indoor and outdoor pool. Also that you have a West and East wing. Like Beauty and The Beast. But you let me go into the West wing, which is nice. Some of the doors are locked here, but that's mostly because of the parties. Alfred told me that he doesn't want people snooping around. Well, not in those words, exactly. But that was the gist of it. Look!" She held out the daisy chain. "It's too big for me. Let's try it on you."

Bruce felt something settle atop his head.

A giggle. "Fits perfectly," she said, grabbing some more daisies. "Hold on, I'll make a smaller one for me and then we can match."

Bruce looked up, watching his daughter hunt around the grass on her knees, searching for more daisies. It was twilight now. The trees were dark silhouettes, a shadow of their summer color. Still, her hair gleamed, stuck out pigtails looking like gold.

"Streams of gold, how I've grown old," he whispered to himself.

Soon the night drew itself across the yard like a blanket, and he could breathe again. Stephanie had made her own daisy chain and was singing under her breath some song from a musical. He wasn't into musicals much, but he never forgot a tune. Annie. That was the one.

She stopped suddenly, noticing his lucidity. "Hey there. I'm hungry. Let's go inside, okay?"

He let her pull him upright and lead the way to the house. He blinked down at her, watching her pigtails sway back and forth as she dragged him up the path. Her hair glinted off the house lights.

"Streams of gold," he murmured to himself, crossing the threshold, "please, let her grow old."


	5. Chapter 5

**May**

Thunder roiled.

The three figures stood, observed only by rooftops and raindrops.

"Hi," spoke Spoiler, a little breathlessly.

Batman stared down at her. His mouth was firm, like uncut marble. He looked disgusted.

"You," he said, voice strained for some reason, "need to go home. Now."

Spoiler found herself nodding, but broke out of her trance. "Wait, no."

Robin sounded like he was choking behind her, but she paid no mind.

"I have a mission, Batman," she reported, inwardly thinking she sounded kind of important. And it was important. Is important. Cluemaster couldn't get away with it. "I have some information on Clu—"

"I'm sure everyone has heard it," he interrupted her with a snap. "Let's get one thing clear: I do not need your help. I will not ever need your help. And I do not ever want to see you in the streets again."

Her lip puckered. "Listen," she said, voice a little more gravelly. No doubt she was feeling a little disappointed in how the meeting had gone so far. "I have information on where he'll strike next. I'm an inside source, you can't ignore me."

"She's been tracking him down and spoiling his plans for weeks," Robin added helpfully.

Batman stilled. His gaze burrowed into the boy.

Robin let his gaze wander before finally settling on a roof a way's off. "She was just trying to help," he said in a last-ditch effort.

Batman growled in his throat. Spoiler almost jumped, looking up at him in distressed shock. She did not like the way things were going.

"Quiet, Robin."

"Yes sir."

"Hey!" She planted her hands on her hips. "You might be big ol' Batman, but you don't get to talk to him that way!"

Batman settled his attention on her. And boy, whoowee, did he seem _mad_ .

She didn't know why. It wasn't like she had been doing anything super illegal. She was just going along, trying to put out fires before they started. It was the same schtick Batman did, geez louise. Talk about unfriendly competition.

"You know," she said conversationally, clenching her fists, "I don't know why everyone likes you. You're an asshole."

"How did you get out here?"

"Huh?"

She could practically hear Batman roll his eyes. "I know who you are, young lady. I know Wayne Manor is not around the corner. How did you get here?"

She was dumbfounded. Her face had been covered and everything. How did he— "Uber," she said.

That seemed to piss him off more. "You took an Uber to go fight crime?"

"Because I've totally got a driver's license," she mocked. "What was I supposed to do, bike here?"

"You will not be using your bicycle for any such thing."

"I don't know who you think you are but you don't get to just stand here and tell me what to do!"

His lips curved a little in a smirk and she saw red.

"Hahaha, fuck you, you stupid furry!" She stomped over to the fire escape. "I am leaving, and I hope I never see you again! You don't even care about this city at all! Talk about false advertising!"

Batman was by her side in an instant. "You're not taking an Uber," he told her in a voice that brokered now negotiations.

She glared up at him, though she knew he couldn't see it through the mask. She glared hard enough for him to feel it, though. "I'll take whatever I want. Go away."

"You have someone at home."

"My dad is on a business trip," she spat. "And stop spying on us!"

"Someone else."

She crossed her arms.

He stepped closer.

"I have someone at home," she admitted, slightly in a panic.

He seemed to relax, taking out a cellphone from his belt. Which, that's weird. Did cryptids get to have service plans?

"What's his number?"

"1-800-up-your-ass," Stephanie recited. Her smugness dimmed, however, when he rounded on her.

Batman grabbed her chin. "Listen to me very carefully," he growled. "I am going to call and you are going to give me the proper number and then you are going to go home and apologize for worrying him."

She tried to jerk out of his grip, but he held on.

"Do you understand?"

"Let go of me," she said.

"Do. you. understand?"

The rain trickled.

"Yes."

He let go.

Tears burned her eyes. This was not the way the night was supposed to go. She hated Batman, she hated Robin, she hated her life. A bunch of stupid men got to run over anything she wanted or believed in, shutting her away like she wasn't even a real person. Not even like a dog, because dogs got to go for walks. Like white asparagus in the dark, like she saw on Martha Stewart once. Frickin' white asparagus. Who even eats that?

She spit Alfred's number at Batman, and he dialed it. In a bitchy way, because he was a bitch. Her eyes looked over the fire escape. Maybe if she was quick enough...

Robin sidled up next to her. She hated him, but not too bad. Just a little bit of hate.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, voice soft while Batman barked into the phone.

She grabbed the tips of his fingers. "You did your best," she whispered back. "Don't let him talk to you like that, okay? You're the best vigilante I know. You deserve better than this."

Robin's lips moved wordlessly, but he didn't reply.

The rain beat down on them, drenching the night into further darkness.

* * *

"Why."

They were in the Cave, and it had been more silent and awkward than Tim could remember in months.

"I was trying to get her to go home before you found out," he admitted. "It would stress you, and...well, it's not like your relationship with her needed the blow."

Bruce's gaze was hard. "I don't need you to 'watch out for me,'" he spat, voice acidic.

Tim shrugged, trying not to look like the words bothered him. They did. Bruce never knew how much he impacted other people. That was the problem.

Tim was okay with it, though. Better him, better Robin, than someone else. Besides, Tim was used to the tongue lashings. Every adult in his life provided them. Most of the time they didn't even hurt, he was that used to it.

"From now on," he said, not even looking at Tim anymore. His focus was on the screen. "If you find Stephanie out in costume, I want you to tell me immediately."

Tim shifted his feet. "Do you really think—"

Bruce whipped around to look at him. His eyes were cold, much harder than they'd been in months.

Tim backed off. "Okay," he said, voice small. He looked down at his shoes. "I will."

* * *

His wet hair dripped down his back. Tim had gone, rather quickly. Bruce didn't even know what time it was.

He had—it was—

The sight of her in a cape made him sick.

He had been angry. God knows he had been angry. There the two of them were, _conspiring_ on the rooftops like it was a game of tag. He was angry, but the black anger had subsided. Now it was a fading orange anger, an ember slowly bleeding out. He had lost it. Again.

Bruce pushed himself up out his chair.

He was always losing it. There were moments when he was hit by the grief, the anger, and then he didn't know up from down. He lost track of time. It was dangerous.

Which was why every aspect of Batman needed to be controlled.

Tim understood that. Or, he had thought he understood. But Tim often believed 'control' meant 'protecting Bruce' so his viewpoint couldn't be trusted. He had tried to protect Bruce from a situation which he needed to know about.

Everyone always did that.

But maybe they were right. Maybe he couldn't be trusted.

He stopped. The memorial stood in front of him, lights twinkling around the uniform.

Jason...

Bruce buried his face into his hands. He can't. He _can't_ . He can't do it again. H e can't. Don't ask him to do it again. He can't, he can't, he _can't_ .

"_I don't mind the rain," Jason told him baldly. "I mean, if I don't got anywhere to go, yeah that sucks. But," and he jumped from one railing to the other, "the rain clears the city so you can see the stars."_

"_And you like the stars?" He had asked, watching the boy fondly. Jason grinned up at him, teeth white in the dark._

"'_Course I do," he said, spreading his arms and looking up at the sky. "I love 'em." His face went solemn, gazing up at the velvet night sky. "Stars love us back, too. I know that for a fact." He looked down, twisting around to meet his father's eyes. "It always come around, B."_

Bruce's breath shuddered.

He laid his hand across and pressed his forehead against the glass.

* * *

Breakfast was...awkward.

Stephanie chewed on her toast, throat dry. Bruce looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes that were tinged as blue as the Atlantic. Where had he even gone on his business trip?

She took a sip of orange juice.

Alfred wasn't speaking to her. Hadn't, since last night. Don't know what she had done to piss him off, but it wasn't like she couldn't get by. Everyone in this house ignored her anyways.

Well, she reflected, that wasn't exactly true. Bruce was always asking her to hang out and come eat at dinner, no matter how many times she snapped at him or called him names. Every time after they fought he pretended that nothing had happened, which was...strange. Sure, she and mom had fought quite a bit, but she always was high at the time, so of course she never remembered. Bruce wasn't on drugs, so he could remember. Which meant a) he didn't care much or b) he was saving up ammunition. But it didn't seem like that.

Bruce sighed, shifting the newspaper. He didn't seem to be reading it.

Steph settled back in her seat. She wondered if Alfred had told him about last night. But what was there to tell? She had changed into different clothes by the time Alfred had come along. Batman hadn't said anything about being a vigilante, just that she was out in the city. Maybe Alfred thought she was partying or something. She snorted. Oh yeah, definitely. Even when she was with her ex, Dean, he often schmoozed the parties and left her in the kitchen by herself. That could have been because she was so much younger than him and his friends, though. They had offered beer, but after the first couple of drinks she hadn't even wanted any. It tasted like dirt vomit.

She glanced over at Bruce again, trying to get a read on him. Boy, those business trips really did take a lot outta him. Maybe he was hungover or something.

Bruce noticed her eyes on him and looked up. "I'm going to the office today," he told her, voice weary.

"Are you sure you don't need to sleep more?"

He suddenly looked annoyed. "I'm sure."

She shrugged. "I'll probably go see if Tim has something to do."

"No."

"What?"

"You're coming with me to the office," he said, setting down his paper.

He hadn't even bothered to ask her. She crossed her arms. "If you want me to serenade the interns again, fine."

"No." He stood up. "You won't." He walked away from the table, saying, "Grab a book. You'll be staying with me."

She pushed her chair out. "I don't want to stay with you, and I don't even like to read, so—"

"Stephanie!"

She jumped, startling at the volume. She met his eyes. They were cold as ice, not even a bit of humor in them like they'd had from the first time they met. Oh. He probably knew.

"We are not doing this," he told her. "You will grab a book and you will sit in the office and you will not cause any trouble, do you understand?"

He often yelled at her, but now was the only time she had ever felt like crying. "Yes."

"Good. Five minutes."

She watched him walk away, feeling strangely small, vindicated, and guilty all at once.


	6. Chapter 6

**May**

"Stephanie? Steph!" Bruce called into the house. "Stephanie, get down here!"

"What?!" she shouted back, grouchy.

"Come down here please!"

Several moments later she appeared at the bannister. "Alfred says not to yell," she told him primly.

He was trying not to smile. "Sorry," he apologized, with a gleam in his eye. "Come down please."

"Why?"

"It's a surprise."

"A good surprise or a bad surprise?"

Bruce's brow furrowed. "What's a bad surprise?" he asked, but Stephanie was already walking down the stairs.

"Ya know," she said, stopping a couple of steps above so that she was eye-to-eye with Bruce. "A bad surprise. Like taking the trash out or a drug dealer or a criminal or something. That sort of stuff."

"You think I would bring a criminal here?"

She huffed in exasperation, swinging her hoodie sleeves as she shrugged. "I don't know! That's why I was asking what kind of surprise it was."

"Here, come on." He opened the front door. "It's outside."

She dragged her feet. "Is this where you bury me alive in the front yard," she complained bitterly, "because I messed around with your cuff links?"

"I don't care about the cuff links."

"Yes you do."

"Yes I do, but not much." He stopped suddenly. "Okay."

"Okay." She blinked. "There's nothing here."

"Well, not yet. Would you close your eyes if I asked you to?"

"No."

"Stephanie."

She groaned, slapping her hands over her eyes. "This is the part where you get your shovel and hit me with it, I just know it."

"Why do you always assume I'm trying to kill you," he asked, walking over to the shed.

"Because my presence is incentive to kill. I'm super annoying. It's a personal weapon."

"You're not annoying." He picked something up from the shed, walking over.

"Hah!"

He stopped. "Are your eyes still closed?"

"Y-es."

"Okay." He set it down. "You can open them now."

She immediately lowered her hands and opened her eyes.

"Oh."

"Oh?"

"It's a bike," she said softly. "You got me a bike."

"Yes." She didn't move. "Do you...want to ride it?"

"...Can I?"

"Honey, it's _yours_ ."

"Oh."

Stephanie crept forward, fingers just trailing the handlebars. "How much was it?" she asked suddenly.

"Not much." He noticed her frown. "Do you not like it?"

"No, it's not that. I...I love it." She withdrew her hand reluctantly. "It's just...there's no room."

"No room," he repeated.

"At mom's. There's not enough room."

"I see."

She swung her arms, shrugging, trying not to look disappointed. "It's okay. It's not as if I need it there, because Gotham transportation really isn't that bad, and I think uber is going to give me a special deal for—"

"What if," he interrupted her, "you can keep the bike and it can. stay here. So when you visit you can bike all over."

She sent a blinding grin. "Yeah?"

He smiled back at her. "Yeah."

She laughed a little. "Okay. Yeah. That...that works!" She jumped on the bike, almost falling over. "Whoa."

"Careful," Bruce instructed. She waved him off. "I think it might be too tall for you, it needs to be adjusted."

"Nuh-uh, I want it just like this, don't touch it," she said, feet just barely reaching the pedals.

"Wait, wait." Bruce kicked it off the stand. "Okay."

"Thanks!" She went off, braids flying behind her.

"Be careful!" Bruce called, watching her almost run into the fountain.

"That was a fluke!" she protested. "I'm completely in control!" She wobbled and almost fell over, catching herself at the last minute. "Coincidence! Don't look at me!"

He almost laughed. He was glad he could convince her to take it. He didn't know if she would yell at him over it (she had over gifts before) or act like he was trying to manipulate her. Bruce could count on one hand how many times he had tried that. Stephanie was too keen for emotional manipulation. Not to mention, he thought as she almost whizzed into a bush, chaotic. Of course, she still thought she was going to win back custody and live with her mother. He sobered. At this point, he wasn't sure if that was an actual goal of hers or if it was the one area of control she thought she had. He brushed a hand over his chin. It was...a messy situation. And he hadn't helped much.

"Tim!"

He looked up at Stephanie's shout and saw Tim coming up the path. Tim waved.

Steph went to wave back, then gasped and put her hands back on the handlebars with a jerk. "C'mere!"

Tim jogged over, giving Bruce a wide berth. He frowned. What was that about?

"Sit on the handlebars!" Stephanie commanded him. Tim laughed.

"No way! You barely know how to bike! I'm not putting my life in your hands."

"Rude. I do know how. Come on, Tim, pleeeaaase!"

Bruce watched the two of them go back and forth, Stephanie circling around Tim on her bike. They really were just...kids. Huh. He shifted. He hadn't considered that. Well, of course he knew that. Stephanie was fourteen and Tim was thirteen, would be fourteen in three weeks. It was just...he looked away. In between the time of being Bruce and being Batman, looking at all the intricacies of scenarios, he sometimes. Missed. The big picture.

He remembered Dick at fourteen. Felt like it was yesterday. He hadn't hit his growth spurt yet, so he could still crawl around Bruce's shoulders like a monkey. How that that faded so quickly, the trust and emotional and physical intimacy. No doubt Dick would say that it was his fault, and Bruce wasn't likely to disagree with him. He...well. Steph wasn't far off in calling him "robot man."

A shriek of indignation and Bruce looked up to see Stephanie attempting to run Tim over, Tim gripping the handlebars with all his might. They weren't genuinely fighting, for Tim was laughing so hard he was out of breath. A couple of early fireflies flew around the yard. One blinked near his left eye, and Bruce reached out to cup it in his hands. It stayed still, looking for all the world like an ordinary insect. But then it blinked, gleaming an incandescent yellow. Bruce opened his hands and let it go, watching it fly off.

Maybe there was more to things than he thought. He glanced over at his daughter, immediately amused and partly concerned, for she had forced Tim to sit (rather uncomfortably) on the handlebars.

"No, you're shorter than me, you'll fit best."

"Like that means anything!" he protested. "This bike is huge! You need to adjust it."

"Nuh uh! Just lean to the left a bit, I can't see."

"You can't _see_ ? You're steering and you can't _see_ ?"

"Quiet, be quiet," she giggled. "Stop moving!"

"You were the one who told me to lean left!"

"Not that much! You're putting me off balance!"

"Let me off, I'm going to bike."

"No!"

"Steph, slow down!"

"I'm being careful!"

"You almost impaled me on the fence!"

"'Welcome to Wayne Manor, the home of eclectic human decoration,'" Stephanie mocked. "'Only the best neighborhood boys are used as weather vanes. Their bodies swing around and point wherever the wind blows!'"

"Oh my gosh, you're so sick."

"I'M sick? You were the one who—"

"Steph, the shed!"

_Crash_!

"Ow!"

"Are you okay?!"

"How did you jump off so fast?"

"Are you bleeding?"

"Only a little. No seriously, you moved so quickly."

"Do you need a bandaid or something?"

"Tim, I'm fine. I'm glad you didn't get hurt, I would have smushed you like a bug."

"You're holding your wrist weird."

"Because I just slammed into a shed, it's fine."

Bruce jogged over. Tim ignored his gaze, ducking away from Stephanie. What on earth was going on?

"Are you alright?" he asked. Stephanie lay on the grass, knees scraped and limbs akimbo.

"I'm fine," she said, not looking at him. "My bike is fine too, I didn't ruin it."

"Is your wrist okay?" He reached out to look it over, but she pulled it out of his grasp.

"Yes, geez." She still wouldn't look at him. "I can still keep it, right?"

"Keep what?"

"The bike."

He blinked. "Of course."

At that she looked up at him, squinting suspiciously. Fireflies buzzed around her head, blinking away the shadows of her face. Then she smiled. "Okay," she said, as if they were agreement. "I'm going to get on it again. Tim, get on the handlebars."

"There is no way I'm getting on those again."

"Fine." She stood. "Bruce, get on the handlebars!"

"He's too tall."

"Cowards!"

He bit back a laugh, watching her throw herself back on the bike. Well, he thought as she whizzed across the property, yelling at Tim over her shoulder, at least it was better than an Uber.


	7. Chapter 7

**April**

"Bruce Wayne?"

"Yes?"

"This is Gotham Academy. Is Stephanie coming to school today?"

Bruce immediately took an intake of breath. "Yes," he said, several moments later. "Yes, she _is_ ."

"And when is her estimated time of arrival?"

"Thank you for calling," Bruce interrupted, pretending to not to have heard the question. "Have a great day." He clicked the end button.

* * *

Steph sucked down an ice cream cone. It was a strangely hot May. She watched the ice cream drip down her hand, settling across her wrist. She licked it absentmindedly, shaking the hair out of her face. Things had gotten...confusing. And that was mainly her fault, but she was going to admit to that. Out loud, anyways. Her tongue hit the bracelet on her wrist, and her brow furrowed. They weren't allowed to wear jewelry at school, but she hadn't gone anyways. But Bruce had given her the tennis bracelet as, what, an incentive? A reward? She had yelled at him over it the first day she lived with him, had thrown it at him. She snorted into her cone. It had hit him in the face, which was sort of funny. It had bounced off the bridge of his nose and he just looked at her, lips pressed and eyes all steely. But the next morning it was on her dresser, so she assumed it was hers to keep.

She looked at it, moving her hand in the sunlight. It glinted rather prettily, casting rainbows against the concrete.

Stephanie sighed, switching her cone to the other hand. Her life had sort of turned into that bracelet. Diamonds and sunlight and all, but still a prison. Well, she shifted, thoughtful, not exactly a prison, but not a free for all either. Things were...different. There were expectations and she hated those, but now she was left wondering if there had been expectations all along, only for other people. That maybe she was the odd one out, walking around and pretending to be a real person with real experiences and everyone else just didn't have the heart to tell her.

And no matter how many times she threw the "bracelet" back into Bruce's face, it ended up on her dresser. He just gave it back to her. Just like how he kept trying, no matter how many times she rebuffed him.

A car drove up and parked on the other side of the street.

She wrinkled her nose, focusing on her melting ice cream. But the really weird part was it wasn't like she didn't fit in at school. She did. She sat with Kennedy at lunch and Bryant was her science partner. Ted Bassi had even tried asking her out before he lost the nerve last Wednesday. She wasn't sure if she would say yes. But maybe she would. She wasn't sure what Bruce would say, if she was technically "allowed" to date. Not as if she would let whatever Bruce said stop her. It was just...

Stephanie sighed, crossing her legs at the ankles. It was hard. She couldn't make up her mind.

A car door slammed in the distance.

Bruce wasn't the devil. She knew that, despite what she said and how she acted. But still...when she had been younger, dreaming up a better dad than Arthur, the concept of someone like Bruce...hadn't shown up. Not once. She had wanted a dad who was cozy, who hugged her and said goodnight. Who looked over her homework and took her to baseball games and the park and bought her gifts at the drug store on his way home from work. She had wanted someone normal, someone all her friends seemed to have. Arthur hadn't been that. He shouted at her and pushed her into closets and called her "little blonde bitch" when she wouldn't go along with his schemes. He...sucked, to be frank. She had some good memories, like that one time he took her to the park and let her swing until sunset. But even then it was probably for some deal. Steph had always been in his periphery, the sidelines of his life.

She wasn't important.

Bruce...it was different. He wasn't Arthur. But he wasn't the dad she had built up in her daydreams. He didn't hug her and he didn't take her to baseball games. Not that she would let him, but. Well. Bruce said goodnight but it was always stilted, like he was saying goodbye instead of goodnight. He bought her gifts but they always seemed steeped in guilt or something. That's why she hadn't wanted the bracelet. He took her away from her mom and he thought he could make that okay with a rinky little _bracelet_ ?

She looked down at it. It wasn't rinky, really. It was pretty. And Kennedy had given her an extra charm, a rolling skate. She had had two and she wanted Steph to have it.

Stephanie cradled the charm, ice cream cone still in her hand. She snorted again. Those Gotham Academy kids didn't know how good they had it. They were naive, plain and simple. She licked her cone, thinking about Ted. Maybe she would say yes. Maybe it was time to move on from...whatever she had with Dean.

"Stephanie?"

She looked up.

Bruce stood in front of her, arms crossed, lips pressed in a firm line.

Huh.

"Want some ice cream?" she asked.

Bruce's eyebrow twitched.

* * *

"You want to tell me what this is about?"

"Not really," replied Stephanie, leaning her head against the window.

"Are you..." Bruce hesitated. "Are you in trouble or something?"

She turned to look at him. "What, with you? I figured you could answer that yourself," she said irritatedly.

Bruce exhaled shortly. "I meant at school."

"No." She turned her head back to the window. "No. School is...school is good."

Her throat went tight. Why did her throat go tight? Was she going to cry? What the fuck? Stephanie shook her bangs out of her eyes, forcing herself to pull it together. She hadn't cried in front of Bruce yet, and it sure as hell wouldn't be now.

"If school is so good why aren't you there now instead of," he took a left turn, heading away from Main, "sitting by an ice cream cart on Fifth?"

She shrugged.

Bruce looked at her in the corner of his eye. "Steph?"

"God, WHAT?"

"_Hey_," he snapped.

"What do you want?! What do you want me to say?!" She spun around to glare at him. "If you were hoping for a pro-con list, you're fresh out of luck. This decision wasn't about you. There wasn't planning put into it, I didn't even think they would call you. So you can rest easy, buddy, Steph's mistake train isn't headed toward your station."

Bruce didn't respond.

Silence filled the car, broken only by interspersed horns and pedestrians shouting.

Stephanie bit her lip. She didn't know why...he hadn't even been mean to her. And there she went, blowing up at him and acting like he was a criminal just because. Just because.

He wasn't her dream dad.

He wasn't even Arthur.

He was someone new, someone she had started getting used to. She liked the dinners together at home, even though she acted like she didn't. She liked that he had bought her school stuff, that he cared about her grades. He asked about her day, no matter how many times she told him to piss off. He acted like he cared and Steph was started to believe he actually did and that was scaring the shit out of her.

No one had cared for her before. Mom had, but after Arthur had been put away and the drugs had started, she didn't even realize Steph was there half the time. Steph made dinner, did laundry, kept up the house. She even got several under the table jobs, just to keep them afloat.

Bruce was different. For one thing, he was always lucid, except at the breakfast table some times. She held back a giggle. He always looked so dopey on Sunday morning. And he didn't let her work, made her focus on school, told her to get enough rest. It was insulting. He always said "No." She hated being told no. He wouldn't let her do things, but then he would offer her something in return. It was a balancing act and she felt like one wrong move from her could make everything topple over. And it would topple over. Things got ruined, one way or another. She knew that. So she might as well ruin it on her terms. It didn't hurt that way.

She snuck a look at him.

His eyes were on the road, shoulders slightly hunched forward.

Didn't hurt at all.

"Do you want to go back to school," he asked softly.

Stephanie blinked. "Huh?"

"It's almost two," he said. "You'd only be there for an hour. Do you want me to take you home?"

"It doesn't matter."

He nodded slightly. Stephanie considered putting on some music, but the last time she had done that they fought over what constituted country music. It hadn't been a bad fight; it had actually been kind of funny. But she didn't want a funny fight, not right now.

"Where did you go?"

"The community center," she answered. They had been in the car for a while, especially since 410 had been closed. They had had to maneuver all the way around to make it through to the 95, which was always backed up. "I used to do gymnastics there."

Bruce hummed. "Is that something you want to continue?"

"Can you please stop trying to give me things?" she said wearily. "It makes me feel like you're guilty or something."

Silence.

"I am guilty."

She looked over at him.

"You're right," he continued, not noticing, or pretending not to notice, Stephanie's avid focus, "I wasn't there for you. You grew up in some place I never in a million years would have left you in."

"You didn't want to be a dad," she negated.

"I didn't know I _was_ a dad," he clarified. "If I had known, I...I had Dick, you know. Things would have been different."

Stephanie hummed noncommittally. They both did that, now. She wasn't sure if humming was something that she did before, but it was definitely something she noticed now.

"I was fine," she said after a moment. "I did fine. I didn't need you."

He swallowed, not looking over at her. "Okay."

"What do you mean 'okay'?" she demanded. "What, you think you're the be-all and end-all of my life? Think I can't do better? Think I'll just break off and die without a stupid tennis bracelet?" She jingled her wrist obnoxiously.

"Okay as in 'okay, you think that and I'm listening to you' okay," he explained with some agitation.

She stuck out her chin. "So now you're patronizing me."

He exhaled shortly. "I don't know how to win with you," he said. "I try to talk to you honestly, you lash out at me. I try to listen, you lash out at me again. What do you want me to do, Steph? How can I make this easier for you?"

"You can disappear," she hissed. "You can give custody back to my mom and leave my life forever."

He met her eyes.

"I'm not going to do that."

She raised her eyebrows, looking triumphant. "Then I don't want your help. Fuck off."


	8. Chapter 8

**October**

She gasped in mock-amazement. "This is completely weird. You like, practically wrote history. I know, you told me about it last Tuesday."

"I didn't try," Tim admitted, shrugging on his backpack.

"Why not?"

He took the paper from her hands. "Why would I? It's just a grade. I don't even like history."

"I think it takes a special type of nerd to _like_ history." She followed him out to the parking lot. "But that doesn't mean you don't _know_ history. What even happened?"

Tim shrugged, not looking at her. "Hey, do you think Ted Bassi was serious about his uncle donating a skatepark?" he asked, switching the subject.

"He was. Tim, what's going on?"

He dropped his skateboard on the ground, foot stationed atop. "What do you mean?"

"Why did you get a D in history? It makes zero sense."

"I didn't want a good grade in history. I don't care about history," he said.

Stephanie grabbed him, wrapping her arms around his waist and laying her head on him. "Is this a cry for help," she murmured sweetly, ignoring Tim's attempts to knock her off. Eventually he tickled her ribs and she gave a short burst of laughter, pulling away. "Mean."

"Necessary," he shot back. "Are you coming over?"

"Are you?" she countered.

Tim shrugged, eyes averted. "Probably. Maybe. We'll see."

She squinted her eyes at him. "Are you going to study?"

He snorted. "Steph, it's one grade. It's fine."

She knew it was just one grade. But it was a report card grade. And Tim was spiraling, not that anybody else cared to notice.

"Promise me you'll study," she said.

Tim rolled his eyes. "No," he said. "If I don't care about it, neither should you."

Not a great philosophy. Like Tim had anybody else besides Stephanie to care about him. Really, half the time she felt like she was a mother.

"Fine," she sniffed. "But I'm going to tell Bruce and then he's going to spank you."

Tim laughed. "Bruce doesn't care about my grades," he told her. He pushed off, rolling away. "See you later!"

She stared after him, arms crossed.

* * *

"Tim's grades are atrocious," Stephanie reported to Bruce that evening. "I talked to him and he won't even try. I need you to spank him."

Bruce snorted into his water goblet.

She waited for him to compose himself, unimpressed.

"I don't know if that's the next course of action," he told her, lips twitching in amusement.

She sat back, arms crossed, expression chilly. "Oh? His report card is a mess. He needs _consequences_," she hissed, clutching her napkin.

"Stephanie, I don't think—"

"Ground him."

"What's really going on?"

"I just told you!" she burst out. "He's not even trying! It's like life is passing him by and he won't even blink! He goes off into a daze mid-conversation and and and—and it's bullshit!"

Bruce started. "Steph—"

"Why don't you ever see him?!" she demanded, rounding on him. "It's your job to look at him and see him and he's drowning, Bruce, he's drowning and I keep trying to show everyone but no one will listen to me!"

"Who is everyone?" he said, trying to gain a handle on the conversation.

She waved her arms in the air, napkin flying off. "Everyone! You! Dick! Even Ives won't listen to me! And the worst part is," she continued, eyes misting over, "is that Tim doesn't even think he's _worth_ it. And that's bullshit, Bruce, it's just _bullshit_ ."

"Steph, honey—"

"No! You need to help him! Someone needs to help him and now he's mad because I'm 'nagging' and now he won't talk to me but really I _care_ and he just—he just doesn't get it! He has no idea what it is to see someone give up in front of you!"

Bruce met her gaze silently. "Stephanie," he said, low and unassuming, as if she wouldn't pick up right away on what he was doing. "This isn't really about Tim."

"Yes it is," she bit back.

"Maybe," he amended, "but are you sure you're angry about Tim?"

A beat.

"I don't catch your meaning."

Bruce sighed. "Your mother is—"

"This isn't about my mom!"

"I wasn't saying—"

"Yes you were! You're just going to try to deflect and use whatever that stupid child psychologist said to you so you don't have to listen to me!"

"That is NOT the case at all, I—"

"Oh please! Grow up, Bruce!" She slammed her hands against the table. "You don't get to ignore Tim just because he's not J—" She closed her eyes. Exhaled through her nose. Pushed her chair back and stood up.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm not very hungry," she said, walking away from the table. "Tell Alfred I'm sorry, I'll eat it tomorrow."

"Steph," he called to her, but she shook her head and disappeared through the hallway. He looked down at the table. Their water goblets sweat under the dining room lights. Withdrawing his phone, he sent a text to Tim.

**_Busy tonight._**

He waited a minute. Two minutes.

Ten minutes went by and no response.

Huh.

Bruce set down his phone, considerate.


	9. Chapter 9

**June**

"Oh my god," she said. "Trisha?"

Trisha Campanella turned around.

"Oh my god!" Stephanie repeated. Trisha Campanella. Here. Trisha Campanella at Kennedy Laurence's birthday party. Stephanie glanced down.

Wearing her powerpuff bracelet.

Man, fuck Trisha Campanella.

"Dean's out," Trisha shouted over the music.

"Out where?" Stephanie shouted back.

"Out of jail. Remember, he got busted selling to that undercover—"

"Yeah yeah," Stephanie assured her. "When did he get out?"

"Yesterday! He's pissed you weren't there."

"How could I have been? I don't live in the city anymore."

"Yeah, you're a regular Ritz-princess over here." Trisha snapped her gum. "How the hell did you manage that?"

Stephanie opened her mouth, but was interrupted by Kennedy's cousins shouting about the Waterford Crystal cabinet. The party was swelling with newcomers, obviously uninvited.

Stephanie watched Kennedy direct people out to the elevator. "I should probably help her," she told Trisha.

Trisha was looking at her, eyes shadowed in the darkened hallway. "Yeah," she said. "Yeah, you could. Or," and she looked over her nails, "you could beat it and go see Dean. He's been talking about you."

"Yeah?" she asked, slightly breathless.

Trisha looked up, smirking. "Yeah."

* * *

The scene had definitely changed. Rather than a glittering penthouse in midtown, they had relocated twice and now had hit the north side. Stephanie swallowed down her drink, an awful concoction of vodka and leftover maraschino cherry juice. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

"So I was thinking," Dean's voice crooned in her ear, hand laying across her shoulder and brushing her collarbone. She looked up and smiled at him. "Now that I'm out, we should pick things back up."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." He bopped her nose. "Sorry I missed your birthday."

Her brow furrowed. "My birthday is in November," she stated.

He hummed, leaning up against her. "Maybe it was our anniversary."

"What anniversary?"

He laughed. "Always busting my balls, aren't ya, Brown."

She frowned. "No, I'm not, I'm just won—"

"For as much as I missed that mouth I didn't miss what comes out of it."

She shut up.

"Hey," he drew her closer, her back against his chest, "I got these for your mom."

A hand stretched out over her chest. Two white pills.

Her mouth felt dry. "Dean," she said, "Dean, things are different now. She's getting clean."

"She's always getting clean," he said, laughing. "C'mon, Steph, I did good work for those. What's a little repayment?"

"I don't have any money with me," she said, hands in her pockets. She didn't have any money with her. Just a credit card, but Dean didn't have to know that. He would take it for insurance, and she didn't want to have to explain the bill.

"We can figure something out," he whispered. He pressed against her, guiding her slowly down the hall.

She pushed against him. "Dean, no," she protested. "I don't want to."

His grip grew tighter. "For fuck's sake, Steph," he sighed, as if disappointed. "I busted my ass getting those for you, especially with the cops watching my every move. You're just never fucking grateful."

"I didn't ask you to do that," she said, feeling the vodka in the back of her throat. "I don't want them."

Suddenly her back was against the wall.

"Well they're not fucking for you, are they," he hissed. "They're for your mom. Not everything is about you. God, sometimes you're such a kid."

"I'm not a kid!"

His hand tucked back her hair, curving around to the hollow of her neck. "Then prove it," he murmured.

The music pulsed. She let him kiss her.

* * *

She had fallen a way's back. She was pretty sure her knee was bleeding. Steph sniffed, crossing her arms. Stupid-ass party dress. Alfred had said she had looked "lovely" in it.

Lovely.

She snorted down at the way she had treated it. Tears and dirt and liquor stains.

Yeah, she was something all right, not sure if "lovely" was the right word though.

She sighed, looking up at the sky. It was just black, not even with leftover clouds. Just hollow. No stars out, she was too close to the city. Why did they have to pick the north side for a party? She was more familiar with—well. She wasn't really familiar with anywhere now, was she.

Dick had said to stay where she was but there wasn't much point to it. She told him the street name, she could walk down it. Pretty sure he was coming up the 410 anyways, so he would exit onto Marple Avenue. That was only two or three streets over, so he would see her sometime.

Stephanie swung her arms, shivering despite the warm night. The party had...kind of sucked. Poor Kennedy. All she wanted was a nice birthday party.

She should have stayed and helped.

She scoffed. Tonight was a night full of enlightenment and late realizations, huh.

Headlights shone from down the road. She looked at the sidewalk, not making eye contact. The north side wasn't even that big of a problem, most of the time. And she was nearing the outskirts of midtown anyways. With those thoughts she trudged down the road, ignoring the shouting from the apartments above.

Kennedy was probably pissed at her. Some friend she was, bouncing when the party got out of control. Not that Steph had been thinking of Kennedy at the time. She pulled on her hair. Nope, she had been a stupid bitch and just thought about some dumb asshole of a boyfriend.

Ex.

Ex-boyfriend.

Tonight had made that pretty clear.

Her lips puckered. She really hadn't meant to punch him that hard. At least they let her out of the basement quickly after that.

In a weird way, being Spoiler paid off.

"Steph?"

She looked up.

Dick was leaning out of the car, window rolled down.

She waved. "Hey," she said, voice a little wobbly. She frowned. Why was it wobbly?

He met her eyes, seeing something in them that she wasn't sure about, then got out of the car. "Hey yourself," he said easily. "You lost your shoes?"

She looked down. Huh.

"I guess so," she replied. "I honestly think Trisha stole them. Bitch."

He smiled and opened the passenger door. "After you," he said, with a mock bow. She saluted and slid inside.

* * *

They weren't talking.

That was fine, she had a headache. Dick had asked if she wanted music, but her ears still rang from before, so she said she was fine.

She crossed her arms over her knees, which were curled up against her chest, thinking. Or trying to. Her head actually really hurt now that she was away from it all. Maybe it had been from the pesto-lobster sandwiches at the penthouse. She had thrown up earlier, maybe she was allergic.

Or like, maybe, her inner voice said nastily, maybe it was the alcohol, you stupid bitch.

Stephanie swallowed.

Dick noticed her discomfort. "We should probably head home," he said, turning on Broad street. Midtown glimmered around them, professionals and partiers alike just getting started.

Stephanie looked out the window. "Yeah, probably," she said.

"Are you hungry?"

She looked over.

"I threw up earlier," she confessed. She closed her eyes. God, she sounded like a stupid little kid.

"Rough," Dick commiserated. "One night I threw up five times in a row. My friend Donna almost took me to the ER. Are you hungry now or do you want to wait?"

She looked down, twisting her knuckles against her toes. "Whatever."

Before Dick could reply, his cell went off. "Hold on," he apologized, accepting the call and holding the phone to his ear. "Hey."

She didn't look up from her toes. She could hear Bruce's voice on the other end.

"Yeah. Yeah. Yeah, I know. Is it—yeah."

Dick sounded like a robot. It almost would have been funny, had it been any other night but this one.

"I'm on Broad street. Yeah. No, it's fine."

The conversation stilled.

"I'll ask her. Hold on."

She looked up at Dick's apprehensive face. He held the cell phone against his shirt, not letting Bruce overhear.

"Do you want to talk to him?" he asked. His eyes were clear, looking over every corner of her face as if she had hidden something between her nose and the tip of her ear.

Stephanie found herself nodding. Dick nodded back at her, handing over the cellphone. She placed it to her ear, staring out the front window. "Hi."

"Stephanie?"

"Yeah."

"Are you okay?"

She swallowed. "Yeah."

"Are you hurt?"

"No." Not besides her knee, but the blood had dried a while ago.

"Okay."

She could hear his breathing on the other end. She blinked rapidly. Why the sound of Bruce's breathing would make her cry, she didn't know. She was probably just drunk.

"Do you want to come home or do you want to stay with Dick?"

Stephanie exhaled in shock. "H-home," she said. Then: "If that's okay."

"Of course. Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Could you pass the phone to Dick?"

She handed it over. "He wants to talk to you."

Dick took it. "Yeah. Uh-huh. Maybe half hour? Yeah, I know. I won't. Don't worry. No, I've got it. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah, okay. Bye." Dick clicked off the phone. He looked over at her. "Are you sure you don't want to eat?"

"Let's stop," she suggested. "What are you hungry for?"

He gave her a side-glance. "There's a burger place nearby. We can go through the drive-through."

"Okay," she agreed, curling her toes into the upholstery.

Soon enough, they rolled into the drive through. It wasn't busy, only two or three cars in the parking lot.

"Burger?" Dick asked. Steph nodded. He gave the order to the intercom and went to move forward, then stopped. "Hey, hold on," he told them.

He turned to her, fingers tapping against the steering wheel. His eyes were shiny in the parking lot lights. He smiled.

"Do you want a milkshake?"

Stephanie burst into tears.


	10. Chapter 10

**April**

"What are they doing?"

Bruce didn't look over his shoulder. "They're trying to get a picture of us."

"A picture?"

"Yes. Stay in your seat."

"I am in my seat," she replied smartly, knees perched beneath her as she leaned over to look out the window. Several cameras flashed. She made a stifled sound, part giggle, part annoyance. "They can't see through the blinds."

"No," said Bruce, "they can't. Are you ready to order?"

She didn't answer, fascinated with peering out through the cracks.

"Stephanie."

"What."

"Turn around in your seat and sit down."

She ignored him.

Bruce sighed.

"Stephanie," he said, firmer this time.

She whipped around, pigtails flying round her head like a halo. "I'm _looking_ !" she said. "Is looking a crime in Bruce Wayne Land?"

Through great self-discipline, he held off rolling his eyes. "It is rude to make your server wait," he told her. He gestured to the server, who smiled at her.

Stephanie huffed, sitting down in her seat with a plop. "You're rude," she muttered half-heartedly. Bruce sipped on his water, not bothering to meet her eyes. Stephanie jerked her leg and hit Bruce's ankle, then smiled up at the server. "Can I have a mojito?"

Bruce choked down his water. "That's not—"

She giggled. "I want a Dr. Pepper," she amended, sharing a twinkling look with the server.

Bruce sat back in his seat. "I'll have the same," he told the server, taking the teasing look with good nature. When he returned his focus on Stephanie, she had already turned back in her seat, chair leaning precariously.

"Sit down," he ordered through a sigh.

She sat down reluctantly, head craning behind her. "Do you think they'll come in?"

"They're not allowed."

"Why not?"

"Harassment charges," he told her.

"You harass me all the time and you're still allowed in," she negated.

He sighed and took another sip of water.

* * *

**June**

"I want to go with!"

Bruce turned around to look at her, hand taking off his tie. "It's a night club," he said incredulously.

She crossed her arms. "So?"

He sent a look. "You're fourteen."

"A very mature fourteen year old," she told him. "I'm fourteen going on twenty-four. Mrs. Davis says I'm much more emotionally developed than everybody else in class."

His eyebrows rose. "She does?"

"Yes, fuck you. Why do you act surprised that someone said something nice about me?"

Bruce pressed his lips in a straight line. "We talked about the way you speak."

"Yeah, then I decided that I didn't like that talk and went back to the way I did things before." She hopped over the bedroom threshold, surveying him keenly. "Your hair is fine," she said after several moments of observation, "but I don't think you should wear the green."

"Oh, no?" he asked, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

She shook her head, walking into the closet. "It's too bad, because I look good in green. We'll never be able to match. Blue or red?" she called out.

"Red."

"Hmmm. No, we're doing the blue." She came back out, carrying out the silk shirt. "Try not to look like a pimp," she instructed him, handing it over. He pinched her cheek and she scowled.

"Go pick out some cuff links," he ordered. She flew back into the closet, clattering around. "Wait," he called, "grab the platinum ones."

"...Are you sure?"

Bruce frowned. Why did she sound nervous? "Yes, I'm sure. Unless you think—"

"I got these instead!" Stephanie burst out of the closet and shoved the cuff links into his hand. "They're diamond, see? They're sparkly, you'll look pretty."

He looked at the cuff links. He looked at her. He looked back down at the cuff links. "Did you—"

"And if I wear the tennis bracelet we can match and then—"

"I told you already," he sighed, "you're not coming with."

"You actually didn't say that," she pointed out. "You just said my age."

"Stephanie. No."

"Then I take it back. The diamonds are tacky. You're going to look ugly and everyone will cry."

He huffed a laugh. "Behave yourself tonight," he told her, putting on his jacket.

"No." She crossed her arms. "I'm going to start a murder cult and then be featured as a Netflix documentary."

"No murder cults."

"Then let me come with. I could sit in the car the entire time, just leave the window open a crack. I'll even bring my own snacks."

"No. Goodnight, don't stay up too—"

"Tim could come with! We could walk down midtown and get some ice cream at Giovanni's and—"

"_Goodnight_, Steph," he said pointedly.

She deflated. "Fine, be a boring asshole."

He pinched her cheek again. "None of that," he said, charmed despite her poor behavior.

She pushed him away. "Get lost," she instructed him. "Go drink yourself into a stupor to try to find your soul."

Bruce started down the stairs, pausing midway. He turned around. "Behave yourself," he said one last time.

"Sheesh, I heard you the first time! I won't start a murder cult, now leave!"

Bruce descended the steps, mind at ease. It was fine. She would be fine. Everything was fine.

* * *

"For your crimes against Gotham city, wait for arrest!"

Bruce closed his eyes.

"I'm going to kill her," he said.

"Huh?" said his date. "Who? The performer? I thought she did a pretty good job, considering that vigilantes crashed."

"No," he said, opening his eyes. Spoiler was taking a bow in front of the paparazzi, showing off the trussed-up criminals. "Please excuse me for a moment." He walked towards the spectacle.

As if alerted by instinct, Spoiler whipped around. Her face was covered, but he picked up on the wince she gave upon seeing him. "No concerns, citizen," she told him, backing up and leaving a clear space between them. "The police are on their way. Please keep away from the perpetrators, they're bite-y."

"_You_ ," he hissed.

She laughed, a tad too high-pitched. "Yes, I'm me," she began, but he took a step closer. The cameras flashed, anticipating a confrontation.

Spoiler paused. "Sir if you could please—"

"Young lady you are a menace—"

"I'm not a menace!"

"—and if you think —"

"Bruce! Bruce Wayne!" shouted the reporters, each clamoring over the other. "Do you believe vigilantes to be a threat to society? Is Spoiler a lesser-known terrorist in your eyes?"

"Hey!" shouted Spoiler, but Bruce was facing the reporters now.

"Spoiler is a _child_ who should go _home_," he said. "Right now ."

"Bruce!"

"Mister Wayne, what about Robin?"

"Bruce! Brucie! Was it your Ferrari that Spoiler crashed into?"

"Are you saying that there should be an age-requirement for vigilantes?"

"Is this an official statement for WE?"

"What are your thoughts on Batman?"

"Mr. Wayne, tell us—"

"Bruce?"

"Do you believe—"

"Mind a follow up?"

"Mr. Wayne! Mr. Wayne!"

* * *

The newspaper that morning was less than flattering:

_Fill Criminals With Dread? Go Home To Bed! Bruce Wayne __**Hates**__ Spoiler!_


	11. Chapter 11

**June**

"What's your favorite thing to do?"

"Play the piano," she said, jerking back when he tried to slap. She preened when he couldn't, and returned to her former position. "Don't try to grab my hands," she scolded preemptively. "That's cheating."

"I know," said Bruce, "you've told me. Twenty-seven times."

"You seem like the type of person to cheat."

Bruce made a swipe at her hands. She dodged quickly.

"Do you think you'll ever get married?"

Bruce huffed a laugh. "Really going for the throat."

She shrugged, wiggling her hands underneath his. "My turn," she insisted, immediately trying to slap. He moved. She pouted. "You didn't answer my question."

"How can I?" he answered. "I can't see the future."

"It's a subjective question," she protested. "I'm not asking for facts, just opinions. Like an English teacher."

"I never really liked English," he mused.

She tried to slap again. He moved. "Fine, don't answer. Then I get to ask another and if you don't answer, you have to eat dirt."

"_Those_ are the rules to Truth?"

"Uh-huh." She nodded her head, earrings jostling. They switched places, hands atop the other. "Okay, next question. What's your PIN number?"

_Whack!_

"Ow!" She pulled away. "You did that on purpose!"

He cracked a smile. "That is the point of the game."

She grumbled. "Answer the question or you have to eat dirt."

"It changes every week."

"Whoa. Really?"

"Yes. It has to do with probability, my banker suggested it to secure my assets."

"Oh, I remember this! It's something that has to do with a writing columnist and a game show."

"Marilyn vos Savant and the Monty Hall Problem, yes."

"Hmm." He moved to slap, she jerked out of the way. "Technically you still have to eat dirt, but I'll let you slide this once."

He moved lightning quick, then pulled back when she overcompensated and wobbled backwards. "You good?"

"Yeah, yeah. Your turn to ask."

They switched hands. "Where were you last night?"

She pulled her hands away. "That's not how the game works."

He lowered his hands as well. "You haven't been honest, Stephanie."

"Just like you?"

He set his jaw, purposely not biting the inside of his cheek. "We're not talking about me."

"No, we're not talking, you're interrogating me. You got me nice and comfy thinking I was safe, playing a game, and then you struck."

"I don't think I'm being unreasonable for asking where you were last night."

"I never ask you where you go, I never get in your face when you come back at four in the morning."

"That is completely different."

"How?" she demanded. "What, getting blackout drunk is a-okay so long as it's done in the name of business?"

"I do not get 'blackout drunk,'" he told her, shoving his hands into his coat pockets and clenching. "And I'm an adult. You're fourteen."

She stood up. "That seems to be your preferred form of argument," she hissed. "You act so high and mighty, so self-righteous when you're no better than me. Newsflash, we're both fuck-ups! You just have the world behind you to clean up your messes."

He stayed where he was. "What does that mean?"

She threw out her arms. "You have so much support and you don't even realize it!" she shouted. "Everyone wants to love you and be your friend and all you do is push them away!"

"What are you even talking about?" he asked, incredulous.

"I saw Clark Kent at the party. Dick told me he was your best friend. And speaking of Dick, have you even talked to him lately? Or do you just not look at the kids you already screwed up?"

He stood up. "You don't know anything about Dick or our relationship or what's happened."

"Ha!"

He shook his head. "I don't have to deal with this." He began to walk away, halted by a pebble bouncing off his back.

"You're a bullshitter, Bruce Wayne! You think you can just come in and change things but refuse to change yourself? You don't know a damn thing about me!"

He swiveled around. "You're right," he said. "I don't know a damn thing about you. Because apparently you sneak out at night, doing God knows what, and I'm supposed to be okay with that!"

"I can take care of myself!"

He scoffed a laugh. "I highly doubt that."

"Fuck you!" She threw another pebble. "I fucking hate you. One of these days you shouldn't even bother coming back, I think your family would be better off!"

He inhaled.

"All you do is disappoint people and ruin things! You take what's not yours and demand things that don't belong to you!"

"What do I demand?" he snapped. "I have asked _nothing_ of you, not love, not respect, not even for you to be nice to my employees! And I'm the bad guy? _I'm_ the bad guy for asking what you've been doing, for trying to protect you from yourself?!"

"I'M NOT YOURS TO PROTECT!"

"Bullshit!" he shouted. "You were mine to protect the moment you showed up, attempting to blackmail me! You were mine the instant you were born, because, guess what? You're my daughter, not the other way around!"

"You are NOT my dad!" she shrieked.

"_Yes I am_," he hissed. "No matter how badly you behave, no matter how many tricks you pull, I am never going to stop trying and you will put up with that!"

"I didn't choose you," she said, "I didn't choose you, I don't want you!"

"You've made that perfectly clear."

"No one wants you, no one fucking wants you!"

"Regardless, I—"

"You're a shitty dad now, and I'm willing to bet you were a shitty dad then!"

His breath stuttered.

…

"_Don't forget, okay?"_

"_I won't, I won't."_

"_You promise?"_

"_Yes, Jay." He smiled down at the upturned face. "I promise_."

…

_"You're going to kill that kid," Dick spat._

_"I am __**not**__ ."_

_"You're going to get him killed." Bruce could see Jason's shadow move from under the door. "Two months ago he was ripping hubcaps off cars. Now you're going to paint a target on him, for what, just because I pissed you off? Because you can't stand to be alone?"_

_Footsteps clattered down the hallway, Jason racing away from the library as fast as he could._

…

_Dickie's giggles rebounded against the eaves. He leaned his head against Bruce's ribcage, warm and small and full of life._

"_We should do that again," he whispered, giggles interrupting every couple of words._

_Bruce made a face and Dick exploded into laughter again._

_They had raced down the hallways_, _rounding a corner too fast and Bruce had toppled, Dickie clutching onto his back and shrieking in delight._

"_I don't think so," Bruce drawled through his own chuckles. The kid looked like a pink monkey, all limbs akimbo and face flushed in glee. "Don't tell Alfred, okay?"_

_Dickie nodded and pressed his face against Bruce's stomach, muffling his giggles._

…

_Two teal eyes peeked under the arms of an old sweater._

_Bruce sat down, legs crossed beneath him. The constellation lamp flickered against the walls. Leo, Orion, Sagittarius. They dashed from wall to wall, spilling warm light to break up the night._

_"Am I really a replacement?"_

_Bruce looked over. Jason's face was pale and tear-streaked, but he lifted his chin to meet the world. A challenger like always, unafraid to be kicked down._

_Jason always put himself on the line, made himself the changing variable. He believed he could take it, had taken it from the beginning. "I'm strong enough," he had told Bruce early on. "Mom wasn't strong enough, but I was. I'm the one do it, I can do it."_

_Bruce felt his jaw tense, then he sighed. "No," he said softly, drawing himself closer. His dress pants rode up, showing off the silly socks Dick had gotten him two Christmases ago. "No, you're not a replacement."_

"_Who am I, then?" Jason challenges. He blinks and there's still some fear and tears left in his eyes._

_Bruce meets his eyes. "You're my Jason," he said simply. He pressed a kiss to the boy's brow. Jason closed his eyes, sniffling._

"_I love you, okay?"_

_Bruce smiled. "I love you too."_

…

_Dick leaned into the giant palm, small fingers entangling around the large wrist. "I'm here, B," he repeated seriously. _

_Bruce caressed the minuscule face, feeling the delicate heartbeat in his hands._

_Dick sighed, closing his eyes. _

_"Please don't leave me."_

_"Never." _

_The heart monitor beeped._

_"Promise?"_

_"I promise."_

…

"—So don't think you can tell me what to do. You're a fuck-up just as much as me, so I'm going to continue my own life the way I want it!"

"...No," he said quietly, voice coming out strangled. He could hardly breathe, let alone speak.

"Oh fuck off," said Stephanie. "You can quit with the bullshit, you don't care about me!"

His head snapped up. "I do," he said, louder and more evenly. "I _do_ care."

"No you don't!"

Several more pebbles hit him. He took a step forward.

"You don't care!" she screamed. "You don't care, you don't give a shit about me, you just wanted to take me away! Fuck you! I'm a person, you can't just take people!"

He took another step. She threw her last pebble, which hit his collarbone.

"Steph," he said.

"No!"

She looked around, finding nothing, and so took off her shoe and flung it.

"Go away! I hate you!"

He closed the distance. "Steph," he said.

Her face crumpled.

"Y-you don't get to just choose," she sobbed.

Bruce knelt down. The grass cushioned his knees, and somehow he still was larger than this girl, this firestorm of a girl. He brushed the hair out of her face.

"It's my life, you d-don't g-get to come in and ch-choose." Tears piled atop her lower lashes, spilling over.

His heart thumped painfully, reminiscent of past hurts that he had buried. He was reminded of both Dick and Jason, and how hard they had tried to keep a brave face only to dissolve into tears. Children, that's all they were. All of them, Bruce included, children with wounds gone gold and pretending that they no longer hurt.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

She shook her head, tears clinging to her cheeks. She hiccuped. "You're n-not!"

"I am," he whispered. "I'm sorry, Stephanie. I'm so sorry."

At this she cried harder, burying her face into her hands. He drew her close, loosening his hold when she struggled.

"N-no," she protested. "No, you don't care about me, g-go away."

"I do care," he said. "Very much. Steph, I love you."

"No you don't!"

"I do," he murmured. "I promise you I do."

She pushed against him. "You don't! You took me away!"

"I know," he said. And he had. He had thought he had swept in and brought her to safety, but Stephanie, for all her sharp words and mature remarks, was very much a child who had had everything familiar taken away from her, leaving her on unstable ground.

"You stole me," she wept. She beat her hands against his chest. "You stole me, you stole me!"

He hugged her. She sobbed, head bowed upon his shoulder, fingers clenching his shirt.

"I'm sorry," he said, heart in his throat. "I love you. I'm so sorry."


	12. Chapter 12

**September**

She hadn't been paying attention.

Well, no, that wasn't true. She had been paying _too much attention_ to what was in front of her and ended up getting jumped from behind. This just in: bicycle chains hurt like a bitch.

Spoiler gasped as blood poured down her face, not having time to swipe before the perpetrator swung again. She ducked before reaching up and letting the chain swing around her arm. It bit into her skin but she yanked as hard as she could to get the man off balance, then kneed him in the groin, hard.

He swiveled just in time but still coughed in pain, and she took the opportunity to elbow him in the face.

Good news: she broke his nose.

Bad news: her arm was still wrapped up in the bicycle chain, and Mr. Tall Dark and Bruised was piiiiiissed.

He pushed her and she slammed against the brick wall. Her vision swam for a moment. Her hood had fallen away so he grabbed her by the hair, which, rude. He drew back his other arm to punch, but since their arms were connected via the bicycle chain, all that happened was her face smushed against synthetic leather.

Groin smash: take two.

"There we go," she murmured, pulling the bicycle chain from his grasp while he fell to the floor, whimpering. She kicked him while he was down, ignoring the way her precision widened and only got him in the ribs. "Whaddaya…whad…why…hol' on," she slurred. Well, crapsicles, Stephanie thought a little hysterically. "Ya got me," she told him, kicking him again. This time her foot connected and he made a noise that sounded like vomit. That worked.

Stephanie stared at the man, recognizing him as Jesse Dawson, the son of her dad's friend, Old Pat. Bitch, she thought sullenly. He used to eat all the lucky charms marshmallows whenever he went to her house. What a moron to get caught up in his dad's crime business.

Not that she was that different, since she was technically out here, committing crimes. But different crimes than Arthur. Like…crime prevention crimes. On a scale of jaywalking to murder, she was a solid three.

"Stay there," she ordered him. He moaned in response.

Stephanie struggled out of the alleyway, stumbling against the brick wall. Blood poured sluggishly down to her lip, and her tongue darted out to lick before she even knew what she was doing. Yep, she winced. Definitely blood. Yuck.

"Stupid Jesse," she said. She made it to the entrance and slunk across the street, taking extra care to walk when the crosswalk told her to. At least, she thought so. Everything was sort of double. But that wasn't a problem; when in doubt, go for the space between the doubles.

She staggered once she hit the sidewalk. And then she actually hit the sidewalk.

"Tiiiiimber," she giggled. Sidewalk pancake. Steph-splat. Sunny side up. Eggs de la concrete.

Man, she was hungry, but also felt a little sick. She lifted her head, patting at the back of her head. Squishy and wet. The brick wall had made her squishy. Yuck yuck yuck.

The crosswalk lit again, glowing white and hazy. "Pretty," she mumbled, gathering herself to her knees. She stood and tried to walk through the doubles again, hand grasping the buildings to her right. A bunch of them were craggy and good for catching onto, but there were also low windows, which were slippery. "Whoop," she said, sliding forward. That was a window. But now it was gone. Empty air met her hand. She waved it around. No space. Oh.

She peered into the emptiness. Alleyway. She stumbled in away from the street, blinking her eyes.

No one was out on the fire escape, which was weird but ideal. She needed…uh…she needed something. What was it?

"Toast," she decided. Toast would be good. It would make her feel better, get the icky blood taste out of her mouth. "Toast," she said again, more softly this time. She leaned against the brick wall, sliding down because her legs felt a little like jello but also a little like sparklers on the Fourth of July. Zing zam.

Her eyelids felt heavy. Her mouth was dry.

"Toast," she murmured one last time. But no jam.

After that it went dark.

* * *

"She's okay, she's okay! Listen!"

Her eyes snapped open.

Robin was leaning over her, saying hastily, "It's just a head wound, she's breathing!"

Steph's brow furrowed. Why wouldn't she be okay? And why was Tim talking like that, like he was talking someone off a ledge?

She knew about that sort of stuff, because just last week he did. Tim had been so good about it, but Bruce didn't know about that bit because Tim just did things without calling attention to them. He was a good bean, being good just to be good. Not like her. She was a bit of an attention whore.

"Iwnafroas," came the words from her mouth. Well, she hadn't meant to say that, exactly. But the sentiment was there.

Toast toast toast toast toast, she thought, wiggling around. Who had stolen her feet and hands?

She wiggled them.

Oh.

There they were.

She sat up a bit, heaving with the struggle of her own body weight. Okay, so heavy brocade curtains hadn't been the best choice for a vigilante costume. She had done the best with what she had, sue her. Her hands met empty air for a moment, then Robin clasped them with his own.

"Report," he said breathlessly, trying to sound unbothered and professional but really just sounding like a fourteen year old kid. She squeezed his hands.

"Ol Patson isna havinf mah marshmal," she said. She blinked. Ahahahaaaaa. Not what she meant to say.

Instead she swallowed, and a minute after she said, "Got hit. Head. Blood."

"How long ago?"

She blinked at him. For real? She just told him about marshmallows, and he thought she could tell time?

"I'm stupif," she told him grouchily. Instantly she felt woozy. She laid back down, sort of taking Robin with her. The sky wavered a little bit, like they were in the hammock in the back.

Tim was talking to someone, his voice growing faster and more clipped. She tugged at him, but he pulled his hand out of hers. Mean.

She closed her eyes and it felt like just a minute later that Tim was patting her cheek, voice agitated.

"Go 'way," she said

"Stay awake," was what he said in response.

She buttoned her lips. "No," she told him firmly. Then she closed her eyes again, and ignored him when he called her name and kept patting her cheek.

You are _not_ the boss of me, she wanted to say, but she didn't bother because her mouth was all wrung out like a washcloth. Her lips probably flopped off her face like fish, and she was just laying here, like an ugly mermaid.

She might have cried about being an ugly mermaid any other time, but right now she was tired and it felt like she had dropped into a black hole in the middle of the street.

Tim patted her face again, only this time it was more of a slap.

She wrenched her eyes open, brow drawn in anger.

Only instead of seeing Tim and his stupid face, she saw Batman instead.

She stiffened. She hadn't been supposed to go out tonight. Well, surprise, surprise. Local paranoid genius finds out about her misdeeds. Dad gets a chance to ground teenaged daughter yet again, shutting her away from humanity and also Bloomingdale's.

But Batman didn't look angry. In fact, he was looking at her with something like open horror behind his mask.

Oh.

She blinked up at him. Opened her mouth to speak, then remembered that her words ended up slurred and garbled.

So she reached up and patted his arm.

It's okay, she meant to say, letting him know that she was alive and fine. She had seen that look in his eyes before, but not as bad as right now. She had taken care of him during those times, and she comforted him as best as she could now. She patted his arm again, vision blurring.

"She says she hit her head, I think it's a concussion."

Stephanie raised her eyebrows. Yes, that would make sense. But was it from the bicycle chain or the brick wall? She considered this.

Batman leaned over and gathered her up by her shoulders, saying something in his low grumble that she couldn't hear over the ringing in her ears.

Bicycle chain or brick wall? Brick wall or bicycle chain?

Batman tugged her upright. Robin scrambled off to the side, trying to get a look at the back of her head.

Brick wall, she decided.

Then she threw up on Batman's shoes.


	13. Chapter 13

**Spring, 2****nd**** year **

"I'm not jealous of Cass," she said.

Tim sent her a look.

"I'm not," she insisted. "Cass is a wonderful person who deserves a good father, and I'm glad Bruce can be that for her."

"But?"

"But nothing. I don't have a problem, Tim, quit stirring the pot."

Tim shrugged and looked back down at his casework. He knew it wouldn't be long. Five, four, three, two...

"He respects her," she admitted, quietly and a bit brokenly. "He wants her around, in every aspect of his life. And that's...that's good. Cass needs that. She needs to be needed. I'm happy. I really am."

"Bruce wants you around too," he protested.

She rolled her eyes, swiveling in her chair. "He wanted me away from my situation, but let's be real: Bruce and I don't get along. We probably never will. If there was a way he could have gotten rid of me without his savior-guilt complex getting in the way, he would have."

"Steph," said Tim, eyes rimmed with exhaustion and disbelief, "you know that's bullshit."

She shrugged and laughed. "You're bullshit. I'm hungry. Do you want grilled cheese?"

"You know I do, but you know I know you're changing the subject."

"Cheddar or Gouda?"

"American."

"Good choice."

Still, Tim knew, chewing on his grilled cheese, this would all come together soon. Probably terribly, since this was Bruce and Stephanie. He swallowed, thoughtful. Strike that. It would _definitely_ end terribly.

* * *

Bruce hadn't noticed for a while. At first, she stopped coming into his study after she got home from school. He chalked it up to homework. Then she ate breakfast later than he did, never making any claims as to why (such as oversleeping). But he also never asked. She stopped coming down to the cave to whine her way into working the comms, she stopped coming down altogether. He should have been pleased, and he was, in retrospect. He did not have to worry about her. And whenever he checked up on her, she was exactly where she was supposed to be, never on the streets or at parties. Finally, he realized it had been almost a full month since he had talked to his daughter. A full month of "catch you later" and ducking out of the room and never stopping by the office for a chat.

So Bruce decided to change that, right then and there. In truth, he felt no small bit of guilt for not having realized it had gotten so bad. But he was cognizant now, and ready to return to their old routine.

"Am I in trouble or something?"

Stephanie was sitting in his chair, legs criss-crossed on the seat. She glowered at him defiantly, as if to get a head start. Bruce sat on the ottoman across from her.

"No," he answered slowly. "Why would you think you were in trouble?"

"Because you've got a constipated look on your face."

He almost touched his face (if only to rub his eyes) but held off. "Maybe this is just my face," he said, a note of teasing in his voice.

She crossed her arms and didn't reply.

"We haven't been in here for a bit," he said after a long moment.

She gave a "hmm" and leaned her head against the back of the chair.

"What have you been up to?" he asked, genuinely curious. It had been almost a month after all. "I've barely seen you."

"Homework."

"Right." Then, after a moment: "That's it?"

She shot a glare at him. "Somehow I've managed not to join a biker gang, since there are _so_ many around here."

"That's not what I meant."

"Well, I'm doing everything you want, Bruce. What more could you ask for?"

"It's just..." he trailed off. "Been a while. Since we talked," he finished, with a tinge of awkwardness.

Stephanie sat up taller in her seat, arms still crossed. "You mean it's been a while since I've tried to get your attention," she said. "Don't worry about me, I'm a big girl. I can handle my days without you looking over my shoulder."

Bruce paused. He looked at her purposely, focusing his gaze on her face. "You don't have to get my attention, Stephanie," he said.

She lifted one shoulder. "I know. That's what I'm saying. I don't need you talking to me or taking me places all the time. I'm actually capable of taking care of myself, thinking my own thoughts, the whole shebang. So we're good."

"No," murmured Bruce, "no, we're not good. How long have you felt like this?"

"I don't 'feel' anyway, geez. Are you finally considering therapy? If so, those suggestions were for yourself. Stop trying to one-up my therapist and psychoanalyze me."

"I'm not trying—"

She stood up. "You should start getting a move on. Bad guys won't throw themselves in jail."

"Steph, this conversation isn't fin—"

"I'll remind Al about the cookies, but don't be surprised in you get oatmeal raisin this time around."

And with that she left, door shut firmly behind her.

Bruce stared wonderingly at the door. Something felt off, but he wasn't sure just how yet.

* * *

"Hi, mom."

"Hi, sweetie." Her voice was warm and full of relief, like caramel on a summer day. Instantly Steph's throat went dry. Whatever secrets she might tell her mother went right out the window. It wasn't right. It was too selfish. Mom sounded happy and not stressed and Steph wasn't going to ruin that for her.

"How are you doing?" she asked, voice chipper.

"Great! I recently went to a bridal shower for one of my co-workers. Did you know..." and Steph listened to her mother's voice through the phone, closing her eyes and pretending that she was in the next room.

* * *

"Hey, Alfred," said Stephanie one evening as he was pulling out the cookies. Peanut butter coconut, since Dick was visiting. "What do you think Bruce would think of me visiting my mom this summer?"

Crystal was doing much better, and it was almost half a year since she got out of rehab and moved out of Gotham. Stephanie was curious how she was doing, had been curious but had held off to let her mom settle. Plus, she didn't want to be a trigger or something; her mom had worked really hard on sobriety, and Steph hadn't wanted to screw it up. But maybe she was well enough that she could visit, and maybe that visit could be a long one over the summer, away from Gotham and away from the Manor.

"I don't know, Miss Stephanie," said Alfred, looking up at her over the spatula. "You'd have to be in your father's presence long enough to ask his own thoughts on the matter."

So Alfred had noticed, which meant that she wasn't being as stealthy as she thought. Stephanie frowned and stole a cookie.

* * *

She definitely wasn't being as stealthy as she thought, because Cass had showed up outside her bedroom door less than three days later.

"You are...mad?" she asked in a halting manner, knowing that something was wrong with the girl but didn't have the words for it.

Stephanie grinned. "With you? Not in a million years," she said, and she tugged her into her room.

Once Cass was situated on her bed and Stephanie was braiding her hair into a bunch of small braids (either it would look really good or really bad, they'd have to see), she voiced her observations again.

"You are...sad."

This time there was no question in her voice; it was a statement.

"I guess," Steph said, wrapping a rubber hair tie around another tiny braid. "But I'm not sad at you. I'm sad at...me, I think."

"Sad at you?"

"Yeah."

They were silent, clock ticking in the corner of her room. Steph buttoned her lips. She really hated that clock. It was one that had just come with the room, before she had made it her own. It was large and ostentatious and just really ugly. If Stephanie could have her way, she'd bury it in the backyard, or set it on fire on the pool as a viking burial.

"It's just," she burst out suddenly, surprising even herself, "I am...not. Uh. Enough. You know?"

Cassandra quirked a brow, looking considerate but not yet puzzled.

"It's like," and Stephanie crawled around to lay back against her headboard, tucking a pillow into her arms. "I am not big. Other people are. I am not big, not strong, not smart. And that makes me sad at me. Because I try but still." She made a gesture with her hands, pantomiming emptiness. "Not enough."

Cass leaned over and grabbed her hands. "Not empty," she insisted. She placed her hands against Stephanie's, then slid them up like a flower. "Growing."

Stephanie sighed. She brought her hands away and tucked herself into a ball. "Your hair looks silly," she told Cassandra.

Cassandra obligingly stuck out her tongue. "Silly," she repeated. Then she pointed to Stephanie. "You are silly."

"Maybe," Steph admitted. "I wish it was summer already."

"Because you want mother?"

"Sort of."

"Because you want..." she trailed off. "Safe?"

Stephanie closed her eyes. "Because I want to grow away from here. Grow high into the sky and meet a giant and steal a golden egg and never come back down."

"Silly."

"Yeah." Stephanie yawned, still not opening her eyes. "Silly."

* * *

"Stephanie is sad at you."

"Pardon?"

They were in the middle of a spar, and Cassandra had just jumped away and told him that, as if they had been picking up a prior conversation.

"She is sad," she repeated. "At you. You make her sad."

Bruce gaped at her. "How?" he demanded. Sweat dripped down his neck.

Cass fluttered her hands in a empty gesture, then pounded her heart twice and drew a finger down her face like a tear. "Not big," she said. "Want to go away, maybe feel bigger."

"She wants to _leave_?"

Cass shook her head. "Grow. Grow big everywhere." She paused, considerate. "Sad flower?"

Bruce grunted. "I'll talk to her."

"No." Cass shook her head at him. "She is sad at you."

"Then what am I supposed to do?"

She tilted her head at him. Then her mouth quirked in a funny way, like she knew something Bruce knew but he hadn't realized it yet. She placed her hands on top of her head and then shot them outward.

_Let her grow_.

Bruce's heart twisted. He knew what that meant. He stepped back. "No, Cass." He shook his head and left the mats, leaving Cass standing alone. "_No_."

Cassandra watched him go, eyes shadowed with concern.


	14. Chapter 14

**December 20th**

"You know what I want?" she said, watching the man's face. "More than anything in the entire world?"

"What," he asked, not looking up.

"A tattoo."

Bruce snorted. "No."

"Oh, c'mon!" She fluttered her hands. "A little bunny rabbit, elegantly placed across my shoulder blade."

"Absolutely not."

"You're no fun." She wrinkled her nose and flopped on the couch. "Hey, are you working Christmas?"

His pen stilled. He hadn't not worked Christmas since—since—

"_Imagine the balls of these guys," Jason complained. His nose was red and his eyes were wet from the stinging cold winds. "Committing a crime on our Lord and Savior's birthday. Wait til Father Tom hears about this. It'll make me punching his nephew on Good Friday seem like nothin'."_

"Usually I do," he said quietly. He focused on the page and began writing again, each stroke of the pen feeling like lead.

"Okay, cool. My mom usually works—" She paused. "_Worked _Christmas. So when I was a kid I would watch all the old movies on tv. Do you have Casablanca? I usually watch that. Unless I work. Mom and I both worked Christmas Eve last year. How does anyone have time for crime AND last minute shopping? I swear to you, I gift wrapped a present for Harley Quinn just before closing. Do you think she used the gift to commit a crime?"

He opened his mouth to reply, but she shot up from her seat with a gasp.

"Look!"

Bruce turned around in his chair, peering out the window.

* * *

"It's snowing!"

"I can see that."

Stephanie darted into the yard, ducking under the Christmas decorations. "It'll be a white Christmas!" she shouted. "Just like in the movies!"

Bruce followed her, snowflakes settling into his hair softly. "Has it not snowed in Gotham since the blizzard three years ago?"

"That wasn't a real blizzard," she told him, as if he didn't already know. "That was Mr. Freeze, and it was in November. It doesn't count. White Christmases have to be on _Christmas,_" she told him imperiously. "Stick your tongue out!" She flung her head back and stuck out her tongue, catching a cluster of flakes. "We should make snow angels!"

"It's not deep enough for that," he pointed out.

"No, I know, but when it is! And Tim needs to come over so we can build a snow igloo!"

Tim's parents were leaving for Haiti soon, so it was safe to presume that Stephanie would be dragging him over at all hours to entertain her.

"Have you ever built one?" Bruce asked, watching her growing excitement.

She twirled, hat flying off her head. "Nope! Not enough space. Stick out your tongue, Bruce!"

Bruce watched her, face considerate, and obliged.

* * *

**December 21st**

"Dick?"

"Yeah. I'm...I'm still here. I can, uh," he cleared his throat. "Yes, I can make it. Alfie would...he would like that."

"He would."

They were silent, as if afraid to speak and trespass on the memories of the past. After a minute of nothing but quiet breathing, Bruce inhaled and said, "So I'll see you then."

"Yeah," Dick murmured. "Yeah, I'll see you then." He clicked off the phone and looked at his empty apartment. "Christmas at the Manor." He dragged a hand through his hair, gripping at the roots. "Huh."

* * *

**December 24th**

"What's this?"

"It's a five hundred euro banknote," Dick explained before Bruce could open his mouth. "You can see that by the 'five hundred' and 'euro' on the front."

"I spit in your drink earlier," Stephanie said pleasantly.

"Oh yeah? Which one?"

"All of them."

"Back to the matter at hand," Bruce sent a look of parental exasperation at the two of them, "this is yours." He set the euro down in her hand.

Stephanie gazed at it. "Thank you," she said, brow furrowed. The green velvet hair bow of Alfred's creation had already fallen out from the snowball roughhousing, and had been retied hastily. It drooped over her ear as she studied the euro. "This is a nice collector's piece."

Bruce sat down, resting his arm and tucking a hand under his chin. Dick met his eyes and grinned.

"I told you she wouldn't get it."

"I get everything," she shot back at Dick. He smiled and ruffled her hair, disturbing the hair bow even more.

"Of course," he said, handing over a glass of sherry to Bruce. When Bruce raised an eyebrow, Dick shrugged as if to say 'lighten up.' "But what do you do with it?"

Stephanie rolled her eyes. "Just because I can barely do geometry doesn't mean I don't know how currency works. Euros are divided into 100 cents, so this is—"

"Dear god, Steph." He picked up the banknote from her hand and waved it. "This is money. You spend it."

"Not in Gotham, dingus," she replied. Then she stopped. She turned to Bruce, eyes shining. "Really?!"

He tilted his head, almost smiling. "Yes."

She grabbed his sleeve, banknote and Dick's teasing forgotten. "When?!"

"Spring break."

"Will you take me to Paris? And Rome? And all those other places that Ingrid Bergman grew up?"

Ingrid Bergman was Swedish, but he didn't comment on that.

"Yes," said Bruce, extricating his sleeve from her hold and setting down his glass. "All those places."

She gave a whoop and jumped upon him, throwing her arms around him in a hug. "You are wonderful! Not a beastly goblin man like I said before. You're a gem, a veritable gem!"

He laughed. He poked her cheek, saying with mock-sternness, "Provided you stay in school and behave yourself, of course."

"I'll be an angel!" she promised. She held up two fingers in scout's honor. "I'll be so good, God will hardly recognize me."

"Pretty sure Lucifer thought he could trick God too," remarked Dick from a way's off. She wound back her leg to kick at him, missing by several inches.

Dick laughed and lightly kicked her in the ankle back, and she stood up to give him a solid whack in the thigh when—

"_Master Bruce!"_

* * *

The ER was cold.

Stephanie shivered. She didn't have her coat.

Dick paced in front of her, agitated in worry. Steph didn't really understand why; it seemed like everyone knew what no one was willing to say.

The Drakes were gone.

The doctors kept trying, but she knew it. Bruce knew it, Dick knew it. Tim knew it.

_Tim knew it._

Stephanie wound her hair ribbon around her fingers, watching her fingers purple when she cut off circulation. She unwound it and watched her skin return to its healthy tone, then wound the ribbon again.

Aged hands patted her arm. She turned and looked up at Alfred. His brown eyes drooped sadly, face lined in sympathetic grief.

"Come, my girl," he said softly, unwinding the ribbon from her hands. She turned around and felt his gentle hands gather up her hair, looping the ribbon and tying it with such a gentleness that Steph's throat went tight. He slowly brushed her hair out, then patted the crown of her head before withdrawing.

She turned around. "Alf," she whispered. "Alfred, what about Tim?"

Alfred patted her arm again, and Stephanie swallowed. She wound her fingers through his.

Dick paced, dress shoes squeaking against the floor. In another room, doctors worked rapidly on two people who said goodbye to their son that morning. And in another room, Bruce sat, holding a new orphan in his arms.

The snow drifted outside the hospital window, encasing Gotham in white.


	15. wild one part 1

**October**

"Today we're going to be discussing your feelings," announced Stephanie, gliding into the dining room. She set down a presentation easel. "Or lack thereof."

Bruce sipped his coffee.

"One," she said, striking one of the fancy candle tapers against the board. A hastily drawn picture of a stage with musical symbols was scribbled across the front. "Studies show that social stimulus encourages character growth in adolescents."

"What studies?" he queried. She ignored him.

"Two!" Another strike against the board. "Music is known to be an alternative medicine. Three! You are sick of me."

"I wouldn't necessarily say—"

Stephanie interrupted him. "This is not a Q and A!" She struck the board again "Four! Devil's Cub is an objectively great band, though they are going through a synth pop phase."

"Devil's Cub is not—"

"I'm not finished!" she protested. She moved to strike the board once more, but Bruce held up a hand.

"Alfred would likely appreciate his candles in one piece."

She set the abused candle on the table, then clasped her hands, eyes twinkling (or, at least, attempting to make her eyes twinkle). "Five," she finished, "I deserve a reward."

Bruce raised his eyebrows, lips quirking. "You want a reward for upholding your end of the deal?"

"Au contraire, mon père," she quipped. "The deal was that I would do things your way for a month. I one-upped you by not going out at night at all, you miserable, isolated husk of a man."

Bruce sipped his coffee again. "You want to go the Devil's Cub concert."

Stephanie rolled her eyes heavenward, as if asking for strength. "Yes."

"Hmmm."

Stephanie walked over to his chair, crossing her arms. "What does 'hmmm' mean?" she demanded.

He sent her a look. "It means I'm thinking about it," he told her.

She brightened. "Thinking about it isn't 'no.'"

Bruce raised a brow, gazing at her. She had been exceptionally cooperative lately, not to mention courteous. When she had suggested the deal of one month his way versus one month her way, he had had some doubts. But she stuck to her word and did what he had asked, with little to no complaining. It reflected well on her, and she likely would have asked to go the concert regardless of the deal.

"And, not to guilt you or anything, but Tim says he'll come with. He's been so bummed since the report card grades, which," she waved her hands, "we are not discussing. But I really think this could cheer him up, so please say yes because if not I need to think of something else to make him happy, and this plan took me weeks, so."

Bruce laced his hands beneath his chin. She was trying to do something nice for Tim.

"I mean, I guess I could try to build a skateboard park in the backyard but I really could only build one ramp and I'd need so much lumber from the hardware store."

"Yes."

"And of course it'd be pitiful, just one tiny ramp, that's not exactly—yes?! Really?!"

Bruce's lips upturned. "Yes," he said simply.

"Yes! Thank you thank you thank you, this is the best day ever!"

"Remember to stay safe," he instructed her.

She grabbed the candle from the table, waving it animatedly. "Me? Unsafe? I would never!"

"And," Bruce added, "you're not going in the mosh pit."

"Why not?"

"You being fourteen ring a bell?"

"Yes, but a very small one," she said. "More like a triangle, like a 'ting!'" She grabbed her presentation easel, board nearly slipping off. "I have to go tell Tim!"

"No mosh pit," he called after her.

"We'll see!" she shouted over her shoulder.

"Stephanie!"

* * *

"Bruce expects you to go with me."

"Why?" Tim asked. They were in the backyard, sharing the hammock. He attempted to blow on a blade of grass.

"I told you, they're too dry," Stephanie told him, pushing the grass out of his hands. "He expects you to go with me because I told him you would."

Tim sighed. "I don't even like Devil's Cub."

She gasped. "Blasphemy! You are banished from this hammock!" She wiggled in an attempt to push him out, but he held on. "Besides," she said, flopping back, "he told me I could go if you came with, and I'll be really sad if I can't go. So, so sad Timothy." She sent him a pout.

He snorted. "Why don't you take Dick with you?"

"Because that's stupid. Besides, I want to go with you. And I'll have a horrible time if you don't come, even if Dick goes with me. Even if _Alfred _goes with me."

He sent a half-smile, but with some effort. He sighed tiredly, guilt twisting up his insides. "Okay," he said. "I'll go with you."

She sat up, squishing his cheeks together. "You are a sweet baby, a prince of charm, the hero of Devil's Cub fans, the petite hummingbird of my—"

He pulled out of her grasp, laughing at her shriek when they both fell out of the hammock.

"What's the backpack for?"

"Water," Stephanie said dismissively. "Alfred, you can drop us off at the front."

"Thank you for your permission to do just what I intended, Miss Stephanie."

Stephanie giggled. Tim peered out the window. People thronged in and out of the amphitheater, each unique yet as indiscriminate as ants. Tim rolled back his shoulders. Devil's Cub wasn't his favorite, but a rock concert was a rock concert. Even if they were going through a synth pop phase.

The car stopped. Stephanie scrambled out. "Thanks, Alfred! We won't be too long! Maybe four or five hours."

Tim slid out of the car. "Thanks, Alf," he muttered. The man reached out, clasping Tim's forearm. He met his eyes.

"Do endeavor to have a good time, my boy," he said warmly.

Tim froze. Had his morose state been obvious? His throat went dry.

"I'll try," he told Alfred, lowering his eyes. The door clipped shut behind him.

"See you later, Alfred!" Stephanie shouted from the curb. Her thousand-watt smile could light up Wayne Tower. Alfred smiled back and pulled away from the curb. Tim jogged over to Steph, relaxing his shoulders. Just tonight. Just get through tonight, maybe have a good time, maybe not, and then he could go home.

'And wallow,' his conscious chided him. He ignored it.

Stephanie waved and waved, bouncing on her toes as Alfred drove out of sight. She exhaled, satisfied, and swiveled on her heel. "Okay then," she told Tim, smiling. "Let's go."

And walked in the opposite direction of the amphitheater.


	16. wild one part 2

The streets glinted with leftover rainwater. Steph let her foot jam into a puddle with a _splash! _She twirled. "Come on, Tim," she cajoled. "This is a mystery. Nothing cheers you up more than a mystery."

Tim didn't respond; she wrinkled her nose. He was in a fine mood, wasn't he. Sullen and muttering things as he walked several paces behind her, like she was a leper of bad decisions.

She hopped over a puddle. "Would you take chill pill," she called over her shoulder.

"You lied to me."

The words were soft, and if there had been a wind she might not have heard them at all. Stephanie swiveled around, eyebrows to her hairline. "No I didn't," she negated. Tim sent her a look. "I omitted some details, but we did go to the concert. We just," she shrugged, "didn't stay."

"A lie of omission is still a lie, Steph," he insisted. He kicked at some trash.

"Ugh, no it's not. You're trying to sound like Bruce," she complained.

"You lied to Bruce too, didn't you."

"Only because it's good for him. Now are you going to be pouty all night, or are you going to help me with this?"

Tim muttered a waspish reply but continued following her. Stephanie flicked back her hair in annoyance. She had worked really hard to get out here. It had taken weeks of careful planning and, well, manipulation to even get a halfway decent chance at breaking into the trafficking scheme. She had found the details when visiting Dick's apartment while he struggled with the blender in the kitchen (Dick could cook, but the apartment was small and the blender had had way more horsepower than a kitchen device should). Then she had kept her ear to the ground, keeping several people on her payroll via her allowance. She snorted. Bruce gave her way too much money. What was she supposed to do with it, save for college?

In any case, news had traveled back that there were some new volunteers for transport, and that they were hanging around Grant Park. Pretty bold, considering that it was at the edge of the fashion district, but it did have the amphitheater and a museum. If you asked Steph, she would say you were better off snatching kids from malls. But she could be grateful that wasn't the case, because 1) getting Tim to the mall would be harder than pulling teeth, especially with the way he was behaving now and 2) malls had cameras, and this was _her _mission, not Oracle's. She huffed. Everyone had taken Bruce's rules of non-involvement regarding her to heart. Like he was the boss of them or something, which she knew wasn't true. Why couldn't they just give her a chance to prove herself? An actual, genuine chance, not the crap they pulled when they let her think she was helping when she wasn't. What was she, a moron? A baby? A moronic baby?

"Steph," Tim hissed. Oh. He had been talking for a while, hadn't he.

"What?"

"I want the water."

"What water?"

"The water in your backpack."

"Oh." She stopped. "There's no water in my backpack." She slipped it off, zipping it open.

"Then why did you—oh geez."

She made the grapple dance in her hands, humming a beat for it.

Tim's eyes were strangely blue in the streetlights. He looked at her intensely. "Where did you get that?"

"From the discard pile," she replied. "All this stuff needed was a good tweak."

His lips downturned. "That's not safe," he told her, tone serious.

She rolled her eyes. "Don't be such a square, Tim. Geez, live a little."

"Bruce says—"

"Bruce," she said clearly, "is not here." She zipped up her backpack and started walking again.

* * *

Okay, this was getting really annoying. See if she ever invited Tim to one of these things ever again.

"Do you even know where you're going?" Tim demanded, tone rife with superiority.

"No," she snapped. "I specifically planned out this entire thing to walk in circles. Who even grew up in the city, you or me?"

Tim let out a disbelieving snort.

Stephanie stopped. She clenched her fists. "If you don't want to do this, leave."

"As if I'd leave you out here alone," Tim shot back. "Bruce would—"

"Does he have a chip in your brain or something? Bruce-speak that takes over your body and makes you say stupid shit?"

"Shut up," he snapped. "At least I listen to what he has to say. At least I'm not running around barely knowing what I'm doing in an attempt to make a stupid point."

"And what point would that be?" she bit out.

Tim gazed at her. "You already know."

Anger chilled her down to her veins. "What I know is this," she said. "It sounds like you're so desperate for people to like you that you've given up having your own thoughts and opinions."

"Just because I follow his rules doesn't mean—"

She began walking again. Tim quickly followed her, jumping over discarded trash.

"Have you ever thought that his rules exist for a reason?" he demanded.

"You don't have those rules," she negated. She didn't slow down. "Jason didn't have those rules, Dick didn't have those rules. The rules are specifically for me, and it's bullshit."

"He lost a _child_, Stephanie!"

She whirled around. "And?!"

Tim blinked at her, incredulous.

"Jason is dead," she insisted, "and _he's not coming back._"

An intake of breath.

"Don't say that," he whispered. His eyes were glassy. "Don't ever say things like that. Especially not around Bruce. Promise me."

Stephanie shifted, feeling uncomfortable with her harshness but not wanting to lose face. She hesitated.

"Stop telling me what to do," she said after a moment. "And quit scolding me. I'm older than you."

"Then act like it," Tim mumbled. Stephanie pretended not to have heard.

She tossed her head. "You're really rude," she told him, "because the only reason I even did this was for you."

Despite his frustration, Tim ducked his head. His mother's chastising tone echoed in his mind.

"_Stop behaving this way. The only reason we don't let you know when we leave is because you act like this_."

He folded his hands into his pockets, keeping his footsteps featherlight despite wanting to stomp. He had a bad feeling. A really bad feeling. She had jumped this on him, hadn't let him prepare, he didn't even have a comm. It went against everything he was trained for, everything he had promised to be for Bruce.

Tim exhaled between his teeth.

Since Steph, things had gotten...hard.

Tim had done his best to be what Bruce needed, day in and day out, but he couldn't...he couldn't be Steph. He couldn't make Steph behave, he couldn't make it up to Bruce by being twice as dutiful. Tim felt like he was disappearing under Bruce's gaze, and yet all he could see was the ghost of Jason and the disasters Stephanie left in her wake.

He tried to be both. He tried to support Bruce as Robin, take up the space left behind, honor the graveyard he walked through everyday. But the shoes were large to fill, and he slipped every time he tried to take a step forward. He tried to make up for Stephanie's acidic words and actions, her careless handling of Bruce's heart.

He tried to be what Bruce wanted him to be. He tried to be what Bruce needed.

And yet...

Tim felt alienated from his own hands. The space between his brain and body was taken up by "what ifs" and "maybe this time." Maybe if he did things over again, better this time, smarter this time, stronger this time, it would be enough.

Maybe Tim would be enough.

But he knew better. And he knew the entire ordeal was selfish. He wasn't there to make Bruce feel better about himself. He was there to make Bruce feel better. He was there to help. To help Gotham, and within that, Bruce.

Bruce needed eyes on Stephanie, needed someone to watch out for her when he couldn't. Which was why Tim even bothered to go to the stupid concert.

He really hated Devil's Cub.

His head snapped up.

"Steph!" he whisper-yelled. "_Steph!_"

She didn't stop.

"That's it," he said. "I'm going to find a pay phone and call Bruce."

"No, you're not," she said, unworried as her long blonde braid swung like a pendulum. "Because if you do, then Bruce is going to think that you can't handle the mission, and you don't want that."

Tim's feet came to a halt.

But there was no point in arguing, because they were already beneath Leroux Bridge, creeping up behind the beat-up suburban.

Stephanie grinned and set down her backpack. She withdrew a lockout tool and shimmied it down a window, unlocking the passenger door.

"Be lookout," she instructed him, ignoring his protests and throwing herself into the vehicle.

Tim opened his mouth to reply, but the back of his neck prickled.

He instantly went to cover her, ducking into the car. "Steph, wait—"

_Bang!_


	17. wild one part 3

Stephanie leaned down, blindly reaching into the glovebox. She was looking for something, anything, to prove that these were the transport volunteers they were looking for. Her hand closed around a piece of paper. She flipped it over, eyes scanning its contents. A map of the eastern seaboard with scattered dots highlighted across it. Really? It was that easy? What chumps. She turned the paper over, musing that they must be new to the game. Names and addresses were written in blocky handwriting.

A smile ghosted over her lips.

Got it.

"Steph, wait—"

_Bang!_

Stephanie felt Tim's body slam into hers before she even knew what was happening. Bullets whizzed past and crackled against the bridge poles.

Oh.

Oh _shit._

She stuffed the paper down her bra.

* * *

Okay, the thing about guns: when it's pointed at you, it really doesn't feel like anything. It's just like, wow, that's a gun. The idea of death occurs, yeah, but mostly you're like: what the fuck. This is just like the movies only you know that the gun is real and some stunt actor isn't going to appear last minute. It's just you and the gun and you're like, did I brush my teeth this morning? Like never mind that you brushed your teeth before you left, did you brush your teeth in the morning? You think you did, because the orange juice at breakfast tasted weird, but that could have just been the new brand that Alfred bought.

Stephanie slid her tongue over her teeth before realizing she was doing it. Internal monologue aside, she was definitely trying to think her way out of this one. Thinking...not her strong suit. Being mouthy? More her forté, but not exactly helpful in this situation.

"We promise we weren't going to take anything," Tim told them, voice clear.

Stephanie admired him for that. He always seemed to know what he was doing, always had things under control. Like, he probably wasn't thinking about his teeth at a time like this.

"It was a dare. A stupid dare. Our friends are back at the concert. They were going to buy us pizza if we did it. We weren't going to take anything."

One of the men—greasy, like he hadn't showered for days (why were criminals always like that? Her dad was like that too before a heist. Like, soap exists. Don't be gross)—nocked his head to the other.

"Pretty opportune, huh."

"No," negated the other. "You heard them. They have friends at the concert."

They argued back and forth for a moment, trying to keep their voices down, gun still trained on them. Stephanie tried not to shift. Throughout all her scheming and planning it had never occurred to her what might happen if she got caught. Frankly, she thought a little peevishly (and then immediately abolishing those feelings) she wouldn't have if Tim had just walked _faster._ But here he was now, taking the heat while she just stood there, blinking. Sure, she had gotten involved with criminals before, but that was either as Stephanie Brown or Spoiler. She wasn't sure of the difference, but maybe it had something to do with this mission involving the big league stuff. Normally she was reacting to what was happening, not investigating for herself. Which, okay, she investigated her dad, but that was more like...extremely dangerous trivia night.

"Hey."

She looked up. Tim tried to step in front of her path, shielding her from the gun. She wanted to hug him and also push him right onto the concrete, face down.

One of the men, the one with the gun, was looking considerate. "I've seen you before," he said.

Stephanie's throat squelched. Tim tried to cover her body with his again.

"You have," snapped the other man, circling Tim and Steph to get a better view. "She's that kid, the famous one. The one who did that interview for Vicki Vale."

"The Wayne kid," said the man with the gun, marveling.

"Yep," said the other one, clearly the brains of the operation. "The new one."

"Still don't think it's opportune, Glenn?" he jeered.

Glenn smiled in the shadows. "Well, Charlie," he said, "I think I hear opportunity knocking right now."

Stephanie and Tim side-eyed each other.

* * *

"They didn't even tie us up," said Stephanie, crossing her arms and gazing up at the roof. "This is bogus."

A heavy sigh came from the other side of the horse trailer, only it sounded more aggravated than tired.

She puffed out her cheeks, wiggling her nose like a rabbit. She held back a sigh. This was boring. She almost wished she had done something reckless when the gun was around; at least she could have _tried _instead of standing there like a mannequin. Something was better than nothing. But Tim had glared at her so horribly (and really, he needed to stop acting like Bruce, he looked ridiculous) when they were pushing them into the horse trailer that she went along with it for his sake.

Now they were just sitting in silence, bumping on the backroads out of the city.

"Want to play 'Pick a number between one and ten'?" she asked.

"This isn't a game," Tim said sullenly. "We've been kidnapped. You're being held ransom."

"_We're _being held ransom," she corrected him. "And I know it's not a game. If it was we'd be wearing party hats."

Tim opened his mouth, no doubt to say something bitchy because he had been a bitch all evening, making sure they weren't shot withstanding, but the car rolled to a stop. Tim stopped. He crouched to his feet, holding up a hand to keep Stephanie off. She ignored him, rolling to her feet too. If they had been in a different situation, he would have rolled his eyes. As it was, it was a near thing, she could tell. She considered sticking him full of pins, just to get him to loosen up. Acupuncture or voodoo, whichever worked.

A car door slammed and two pairs of footsteps echoed against tarmac. They faded in the distance. Stephanie stood, trying to get a good look out the window, but she wasn't tall enough to see out of it.

"This is the part where they steal our organs," she joked.

Tim's pale hands clenched into fists. "If that—" but she didn't let him finish.

"I've got hairpin in my pocket, I can get us out in a jiffy."

Tim stood as she leaned over, eyes scanning the door lock in the dark. "Stop," he said breathlessly. His chest felt tight. "Stop it, if they come back and they find you—"

"I can escape any lock under four minutes," she boasted.

"—they'll hurt you," he finished.

She snorted. "No they won't," she said. "I'm precious goods, remember?"

Tim wanted to close his eyes, even though it was already dark. She didn't get it. She never got it. This is what Bruce got for trying to protect her from this mess, he thought acidly. Then he instantly felt guilt. It was Bruce's choice. Tim didn't get a say in it, Tim didn't get a say in anything. He never did. Bruce knew best, except when he didn't. But most of the time he did, almost all the time he did. He was probably right about Stephanie. She certainly hadn't done anyone any favors tonight. He rubbed at his eyes, feeling tired suddenly.

"Don't try to escape," he said wearily. "If you do then it opens up questions about your identity."

"What, that I'm a badass and know how to pick locks?"

"It will get back to Bruce," he whispered. "If you're not going to do it for you, do it for your family. Try to keep them safe, for once."

She paused. "'For once'?" she echoed. "Nice to know you agree with Bruce's bullshit assessment of me."

"I didn't—" he began.

"No no, this entire evening has been you being an asshole. God!" She stood, slamming her foot against the ground. It made a tinny sound on the metal. "I wouldn't have brought you along if I'd known it was going to be like working with a shorter Bruce."

"You didn't bring me along because you wanted to," he said dully. "You brought me along because I was easy to manipulate. You lied to me, to Bruce, to Alfred—just to get what you wanted."

"And what did I want, Tim? Huh?" She crossed her arms. "For you to have a good time?"

"This wasn't about me."

"Yes it was," she said firmly. "You've been sad and mopey since the beginning of October, and now you're lashing out at me because I noticed."

The history grade. The _fucking history grade__._ It all came back to that.

"I don't need," Tim said through gritted teeth, "your constant nagging."

"Help," she enunciated. "It's called help. Which you would understand if I could have let you know what I was planning, instead of hiding it because you're always reporting back to Bruce."

"I don't," he began helplessly. He sighed. "What do you want me to do, Steph? You're never safe."

"Oh, I don't know, maybe be on my side for once?"

"There aren't sides—"

"Yes there are, and you always choose Bruce. Always always always!"

Tim looked at her. "At least he hasn't lied to me," he said shortly.

Guilt began to niggle at her insides. She ignored it, rolling back her shoulders and straightening her spine. What did Tim know?

"I wouldn't have had to do that if I was in charge of my own life," she told him, chin lifted. "You may not get this, since you're so devoted to the idea of being spineless, but I have my own thoughts and opinions and dreams that are my own, that have nothing to do with Bruce. I do not need his stamp of approval for everything."

He gazed at her unimpressed. "So what," he said, "you thought lying would be better?"

It was like talking to an especially thick brick wall. "I didn't lie," she insisted. "We made that agreement a month ago, I can do whatever I want now."

"Bruce isn't going to see it that way," he pointed out. "All he is going to see is that you aren't safe, and it's going to be my fault."

Stephanie rolled her eyes. She wasn't a stupid doll that they could put away whenever they wanted, and she was sick of Bruce's reign of terror over Tim. "He is not going to get rid of you just because you can't _control _me, Tim."

Tim's heart cracked. He opened his mouth to reply when the footsteps returned. Stephanie put her hands over his mouth. He could feel her pulse quickening.

"Shhh! Shhh shh shh, don't say anything."

Tim moved his face away, disgusted. "I wasn't going to," he whispered hotly, but she put her hands over his mouth again. "Stop it, your hands are gross," he protested in a muffled way.

The car door slammed. The engine started up two seconds later. Tim kept his weight heavy, staying upright. He grasped Stephanie's wrists to keep her upright too.

A heavy exhale.

"Okay, you might be right about one thing," she muttered under her breath. "Going in without a full plan wasn't smart. Bruce is going to kill me." She sighed and dropped her hands from his lips.

Tim sighed too, brushing his fingers through his hair. Finally, they were getting somewhere. "I don't know why you can't just listen to him when he says," he began, cut off by her snort. "What?"

Stephanie shrugged. "It's just that I think it's funny."

He narrowed his eyes. "What's funny."

"You giving me advice dealing with Bruce, that's all."

"And how is that funny."

There was a sharpness to his voice, a warning that Stephanie either didn't notice or didn't heed.

"You know, because you can't stand up to him at all, you work overtime to please him in the hopes he'll notice, that sort of thing."

"And what," Tim spat before he knew what he was saying. (That wasn't true. He knew what he was saying, he knew just what to say.) "Acting out, pushing him, behaving like a spoiled brat in order to get his attention is any better?"

She stiffened. "I don't do that to get his attention," she protested, but Tim cut her off.

"Yes, you do," he shot back. "You've done everything you possibly can to push him away, but you really don't want him to go away, you just want him to prove to you that you matter. All your life and no one ever proved to you that you matter, so you thought you'd try Bruce Wayne, huh?"

"Shut up, Tim. Like you're any better."

"I think I am. At least I'm capable of doing my job without someone looking over my shoulder and telling me that I'm such a wonderful person, aren't I just the greatest, talk to me _all _the time—"

"Because you know that no one would, your parents don't give a shit, why would Bruce care if you aren't _indispensable_, huh, you're so important to his _mission _that he can't lose you, so you don't ever reach out, you don't even bother to try!"

Silence.

"Holy shit," she breathed. "Tim. Tim I'm sorry."

"Fuck off, Steph."

"No, please, I'm sorry. I know what it's like when your parents don't care, I shouldn't have said that, I'm so sorry—"

"Stop saying that!" He pushed her hands away. He could barely see in the dark, but he saw a glint of tears. "My parents do care about me! Maybe they're not around all the time, but at least they're decent enough to provide for me, didn't overdose while I sat eating breakfast! I mean, hell, it's not like your parents want to be around you either. You think that Bruce wants you around when you act like this?"

"No." A sniffle. "I'm really sorry, Tim."

"Whatever."

"I didn't mean it."

"Just shut up, Steph."

She did, wiping her nose. Tim closed his eyes even though it was already dark. He tightened his jaw.

"I never should have believed you," he whispered. And he ignored when Steph struggled to contain her sobs. He leaned his head against the wall.

Stuck in horse trailer on the way out of Gotham.

Not how he wanted to spend his Friday night.

* * *

"There has been a message, sir."

Bruce looked up. His lips quirked. "I'm sure. What's the excuse this time?"

"It appears to be ransom, sir."

Bruce's smile disappeared.

* * *

Please consider telling me your thoughts! ^.^


	18. i'm the wild one part 4

"Tim—"

"No," said Tim from his corner. "Don't talk to me. I'm mad at you."

"I know." A sigh. "But can you be mad at me a little closer? I'm cold."

Tim didn't want to. He felt betrayed, used, pummeled like one of punching bags Bruce had in the cave. But he could see Steph shivering, so he scooted over.

This...sucked. This wasn't what he signed up for. Then again, Steph had ensured that he didn't know what he _had_ signed up for. He bristled.

She had stopped crying a while back, but she still sniffled every once and a while. He knew he should feel bad, but he just...didn't. It was one thing to get back at her dad, but it was another to put him right in the middle of it. He tried so hard to be out of range, and he always ended up clipped on the ear anyways. Now to be placed in the middle of the ring with nothing to keep him upright, nothing to balance him, by _Stephanie_ of all people—

It hurt.

God, why did it fucking hurt so much?

And he couldn't cry, not like she could. For one thing, she was a girl and he had to stay strong (even though his throat felt tight) because Bruce expected him to. Bruce probably would have expected him to know better in the first place, so he wasn't looking forward to that lecture when it came.

If it ever came.

He sighed. He peered around the horse trailer, reacquainting himself with their squished circumstances. Steph was sucking her lower lip, curled up into a ball. She looked contemplative. Probably was thinking about how she was going to get out of this.

He clenched his jaw. He'd take the blame. It was his job to keep her safe anyways, even if that meant safe from hurt feelings from Bruce. It was a roundabout way of protecting Bruce, because if Steph was sad she would lash out and Bruce would internalize whatever she said and then he would exert more pressure on her and then she would try to escape and—well. Then they'd be stuck in this situation all over again.

Still. He swallowed. Sometimes he wished he could just hop off the Wayne Train. He knew that taking care of Bruce would be hard; he just didn't think it would come with manipulation tactics while he was off-duty.

Stephanie sniffled one last time, wiping at her nose.

* * *

"I'll get them."

"Dick, I don't—"

"Bruce. Think about this for a moment, please. I'm closer. I can get there faster."

The call came to you, he didn't say. You can't be Bruce and Batman at the same time.

I don't want you to see them.

And he didn't. He didn't want Bruce to see them, see their bodies, mangled and bloody and broken. Not again. Never again.

They were fine. They were going to be fine. But he didn't want Bruce to see it. So he wasn't going to risk it.

The other line was quiet. But Dick knew that Bruce knew what had to be done.

Silence. Then:

"Alright."

Dick exhaled. "Okay."

He clicked off the phone, setting it down. He rolled back his shoulders, steeling his adrenaline to laser-sharp focus.

Okay.

* * *

A mumble.

"What?"

"I said I wish they hadn't taken my backpack," Stephanie said. Her teeth chattered. "I had some snacks in there."

Tim shrugged, still mad but feeling the afterchill of ferocity. He was upset, yes, but it had been around an hour since. Guilt tumbled in his stomach like a slopping load of laundry.

And even though she wasn't acting like it, Steph was scared. She just put on a brave face like always. He got focused, she got silly. That was what they were good at. That's why Tim was Robin, partner to Batman, and Steph was—

Steph was—

He swallowed.

She was Bruce's sunshine, his salvation, his distraction. His way back to a normal life, wherein he would be normal and happy and no longer grieving and paranoid and focused to the point of a millimeter off balance and the whole world would come tumbling down. She was his way back out of the hole, the light at the end of the tunnel and Tim could get Bruce through the tunnel, sure, he'd go at his pace, but. Steph would beam as bright as possible, shout and pull and prod and she would be there at the end of it to lead him elsewhere, and Tim would watching them go, at the entrance of another tunnel.

God, he was such a jerk.

He thought he had been mad about the concert, and he was, sort of, he was mad that she didn't prepare him, they could have gotten a lot further in scheming if she just let him be a part of the planning, but he was mad, really mad, about something else.

He was resentful.

And that stung.

He was resentful and guilty of that resentment because what did he have to be resentful for? Bruce let him into the cave. He was Robin. He had been given everything he had agreed to.

He clenched his fists in his lap, not looking up.

"I'm sorry I made you cry," he said lowly.

She picked at her jeans. "I wasn't crying because you hurt my feelings," she said after a moment. "I was crying because I hurt you."

"Huh?"

She laid her head against the wall. She shivered after a moment. "I just—" she stopped. "Can you not get mad if I say this?"

He shrugged. "I'll try."

"I just notice that you're sad, Tim. You're sad all the time, and I know you're going to say that it's not any of my business, but I care about you, you're important to me. I don't leave people who I care about to drown."

"I'm not drowning."

"You don't _think_ you are," she clarified. "People never notice they're drowning until the water is down their throat."

"I think I can be the judge of that myself."

She muttered something under her breath. She sullenly scooted away from him.

Frustration spiked his veins. "What was that?"

"Nothing."

"No, you're saying something. Just say it," he ordered.

She leveled a look at him. "Listen, wannabe," she said icily. "How about you go play lapdog to people who ignore you and get off my back?"

Silence.

"I can't STAND you," he hissed. He stood. "I can't stand you, I can't _stand_ you!"

"Oh yeah?! And just what is so awful about me?!" she demanded.

"You're SELFISH!"

"Oh yeah? OH YEAH?" She jumped to her feet. "Would a selfish person care about your mental wellbeing?! Would a selfish person take you to see a concert?!"

"I HATE DEVIL'S CUB," he roared.

"Well we didn't SEE Devil's Cub!" she roared back. "I don't know why you're so _PISSED_ about a CONCERT you didn't even GO TO!"

"OF COURSE you don't GET IT!" He kicked at the wall, pulling back at the last minute so he didn't break his toe. "You don't get ANYTHING when it's not about YOU!"

"Who ELSE is going to make it about me?" she demanded. "I'm on my own, Tim, I take care of myself!"

"You are _not_," he said hoarsely, "alone. Bruce cares about you."

She scoffed. Then her face crumpled. "He doesn't even like me," she said. "He likes you. He lets you in. You're part of his life."

"So are you," he said back, but she shook her head.

"You get what I mean." She sat down. "His whole life. You get to be there. He doesn't want me. If I wasn't his biological kid, he wouldn't want me around. You said so yourself."

Tim winced. "I didn't say that exactly."

She snorted a laugh, genuinely amused. Then she sobered. "You were right." She waved away his protests, saying, "This entire time I thought I wanted to do this for you. But I think I was in denial. This entire thing has been about me, hasn't it."

Tim sat down next to her. Then he shifted closer. "You were right too," he said softly. "I just...I didn't want you to be."

"I wasn't right."

"You were."

"How about we were both wrong and agree not to speak about it ever again?" She wound her braid around her hand. "Loser has to eat Dick's eggplant parmesan."

Tim shuddered, tongue going sour in remembrance. "Deal," he said. He went to shake her hand, but then stopped. "But before we leave the topic..."

She groaned.

"Why...why are we so angry with each other all the time?" he asked hollowly. "When..." he swallowed, "When did this happen?"

Steph sighed, tucking her head into her knees. "We're mad at Bruce," she said, voice muffled. "Only we're not really mad. We want to be what he needs but we know we can't be. And what the other is for him, we resent. I don't know, Tim. It's probably my fault. I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault," he said, wearily resting beside her. He stretched out his legs. "It's not anyone's fault, and that's the shittiest part, huh?"

"No one to pin the blame on," she mumbled. "And it's not like we can blame Jason. We'd have to be assholes to do that."

"Sometimes we are," pointed out Tim.

"Oh, definitely."

He drew an arm around her. She knocked her head against his shoulder.

"Friends again?" she asked.

He sighed, gazing up at the metal ceiling. It was probably nighttime already. Maybe they'd get out of the city long enough to see the stars. "Yeah," he whispered. He laid his cheek against her head. "Friends again."

A pinkie came into view. "Friends forever? Even when we're bitchy?"

He wrapped his pinkie around hers, laughing. "Especially when we're bitchy."

She smiled and settled closer. Then: "_Fuck_, I'm so hungry."

* * *

He was in the car going eighty miles per hour.

Trees blurred together outside the window. The sun was setting. It was orange.

Bruce let his eyes wander to his hands on the steering wheel. His fingers were edged with the orange light. Five fingers. He looked back up.

He was going eighty miles per hour.

His face tingled from where Alfred had held it an hour ago (fifteen minutes ago?) and he breathed deeply.

His breaths were even.

He was going eighty miles per hour.

Dick had said it couldn't be him, that he couldn't be Batman and Bruce (but he was, he was, why didn't anybody ever understand that he was—), that he had to be Stephanie's father first in this scenario as if he wasn't always a father, always.

He was a father before, he was a father before Stephanie. Didn't Dick know, didn't he remember—

He clenched his hands. Orange light. The smell of leather.

Tim was with her. Tim. Tim.

They had asked for money for Stephanie. They hadn't mentioned Tim.

He was wearing a brown tie. His face still tingled. Alfred's hands. Alfred's hands always felt the same.

Tim was smart. He was very smart, smarter than Bruce gave him credit for. He could keep them off. They wouldn't hurt Tim.

Tim wouldn't—Tim wouldn't let anything happen. Tim was like that. Bruce...trusted him. Tim wouldn't let anything—Tim was—

Tim—

_Blood in his curls, blood down his neck, broken jaw, smashed nose, blood in his hands, blood on his neck_

Bruce inhaled. Exhaled.

He was going eighty miles per hour.

* * *

"Can you see anything?"

"No, it's dark out. Here, you try."

"No way, you're shorter than me. You can't boost me up!"

"I am barely an inch shorter than you."

"Lies."

"Sorry to tell you this, but those few inches you give yourself? Made of delusion."

"Nuh-uh!" She released Tim's legs, and he came back down with a clunk. "Bruce is super tall, so I have a chance."

"Your mom is like, five four," he told her. "You clearly take after her. The odds are stacked against you."

"Shut up," she said. "I'm going to be like Christie Brinkley."

"You're going to be like Christie Brinkley's little toe," he teased.

"Shut up, shortie!"

"Boys have a later puberty," he said, offended. "I have, like, eight more years. Face it. _I'm_ going to be like Christie Brinkley."

She laughed and pushed at him, then stumbled when the car came to a screeching halt. Tim slammed against the wall and held her, limbs tangled.

They breathed in the darkness. Tim silently slid into a fighting stance.

"Tim," whispered Stephanie in the quiet, "I think we should try to escape."

His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. He gave Stephanie a steel-edged look that she now recognized as fear repurposed, and nodded. She quickly withdrew her hairpin, softly and silently working on the door.

Gravel crunched.

They met each other's eyes.

"What do we do?" she mouthed. "Fight?"

Tim didn't respond. He was trained. When it came down to it, he would fight. Even if it meant discovery. He knew that, if Bruce were here, he would want him to pick Stephanie.

"_Tim_—"

The door flung open.

"Shit!" Stephanie exhaled. "You startled me. God, you couldn't have announced yourself?"

Nightwing stood on the other side, smile resplendent in the tail-lights.

"Hello to you too," he greeted.

* * *

The police lights flickered over the landscape, making the lower half of Nightwing's face look sallow. Stephanie leaned back, braid slipping off her shoulder as she stared up at the sky. Cloudy, but at least it didn't seem like it would rain.

Not for nothing, but being rescued wasn't nearly as exciting as it sounded. In truth the whole night had been kind of anticlimactic, nothing like she had planned.

"Can we get a donut?" she asked Nightwing, still upside down.

He ignored her. "Tim? You doing okay?"

"Yeah."

"He could use a donut," she said, squinting up at the sky. Nightwing ignored her again. He had been doing that ever since he had found out that she had discovered the map that would help with his investigation.

"You mean to tell me," he had said, voice edged with disbelief and something else, something almost like pain or anger, "that you did this on _purpose_?"

After that he didn't look at her, but his fists were clenched all the time. She huffed, still gazing up at the sky. She did him a favor. And yeah, it had gotten sort of messed up, but a little appreciation would be nice. She twisted around until she faced the ground, looking down at her scuffed shoes. The laces were undone. She grumbled and kneeled down to tie them, ignoring the cacophony behind her. Really, it was just a simple kidnapping, there was no reason for—

_Slam! _

Her head snapped up. Her heart beat like a hummingbird, and she couldn't tell if she was happy or not. But she knew who it was. She always knew.

"Mr. Wayne!" called the police, but he kept running. And wow, he was moving really fast. She stood, not wanting to be bowled over.

"Hi," she greeted him from a way's off. "Can we get a—"

Her feet left the ground. Next thing she knew, Tim was drawn up beside her, both of them gathered in Bruce's arms.

"Oh, thank god," he breathed. "Thank god, thank god, thank _god_." He knelt, allowing their feet to touch the ground. He still held onto them, tightly. She twisted her head and looked at Tim, whose eyes were trained on Bruce's bent head.

"B," he whispered. "B, we're alright."

The man shook his head, drawing them closer and breathing deeply. Nightwing had left, giving them space, but Stephanie could feel his gaze on them. She shifted to look back at him (Dick was alone, he should be here), but Bruce's grip tightened. He was murmuring something, but it wasn't until Tim said, "No blood. There is no blood. We're safe, no injuries. No blood, B," that she understood.

Throat dry, she suddenly remembered her mom in the bedroom, door locked. She could hear the faint sobs through the oak. Stephanie had sat there, all day, waiting. Waiting for what, she couldn't remember. But she hadn't expected her mom to come out. So she just sat there, listening to her cry. Sometimes braiding thread together for bracelets, but sometimes just. Sitting there.

"We're not going to leave you," Tim was whispering. She blinked back into the present. "I promise. We won't _ever_ leave you."

And suddenly she felt very tired and very, very small.

* * *

The door to the study opened. Tim shot to his feet. "I want to apologize. I know it won't mean much, but I'm sorry. I tried my best, well, I mean, I know I could have done better, sir, but I'm sorry. I made sure she wasn't hurt, and she hasn't been, I made sure of it." He watched Bruce cross the room. His chest tightened. "She's fine," he assured him. "She's fine, I promise. I tried to—I—" His throat clogged up. He looked down at the carpet. "I'm sorry." His voice was small. What kind of Robin was he, anyway? He had one job, to protect Bruce, to be what Bruce needed, and tonight—well. It wasn't the first time he had seen Bruce that upset, but it had been. unnerving.

And throughout it all, throughout the right embraces and whispered assurances, Tim knew: it was his fault.

He didn't deserve it, any of it. Bruce had held him without knowledge, he didn't know all the details. It had been wrong and Tim had tried to step out of his arms, but Bruce was single-minded. He was like that sometimes. Tim understood. He understood what it was like to want something so _badly_ and suddenly have it right in front of you. It drove the mind to ruin, unchecked emotions drowning over like waves. Tim clenched his fists. He was trying not to cry, but he didn't know why that was the case. Probably leftover adrenaline. Nothing had happened, but he felt like he had an aching wound, swollen with emptiness, right in his chest.

His eyes filled with tears. He didn't. He didn't know _why_.

"I'm really sorry," he whispered. His voice trembled, but he couldn't bear to clear his throat. "I'll do better next time," he promised. "Just please—d-don't. I'm—" He looked up. "I'm _sorry_, Bruce."

Bruce stared at him. The firelight made his eyes look strange, reflective and blue in all the wrong areas. "Tim," he said, and Tim could feel himself shaking. Low blood sugar, he thought absently. But no, they had had donuts. Powdered sugar had gotten on his pants, he was—he—

Calm down, he told himself. He could have a reaction later; for now he had to hold it together for now, hold it together until Bruce got through with yelling at him. He was Robin, he was _Robin_, why couldn't he do this—

Arms wrapped around him. Again. For the hundredth time that evening. But this time it felt almost painful, like his skin had been peeled back and all his nerves had been exposed to the open air. It hurt, it hurt and it felt wrong because Tim had messed up, _he had messed up—_

"Tim," said firmly. Gently. And Tim hadn't realized he was squeezing his eyes shut until he felt tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. Warm, large hands wiped them away. "_Tim_," he said again. Softly. As if Tim was important, as if Tim were some sort of a person, or a salvation, and Tim—Tim couldn't—

"I'm sorry!" he wailed, as if those words were the passcode to fix the puzzle. But his heart was still click-clacking, jagged and sharp and he couldn't _breathe_, he could barely breathe and Bruce had his hand on the back of his head and Tim was ruining his shirt because he had messed up, he wasn't enough for Bruce, no matter what, no matter he did they wouldn't stick around, they wouldn't come back, they never came back—

"Tim, kiddo," and those warm, strong hands picked up Tim's own feeble ones, pushing them off his face.

"N-noo," he muttered, trying to dip his head. But Bruce caught his chin, and although Tim wanted to move away, touching hurt, everything hurt right now, his face was stupid and gunky and he wasn't Robin, he wasn't good, he wasn't good—

"Listen to me," he instructed, tone enough like Batman that Tim was forced to listen, he couldn't help himself. "You are important. You are important to me, and you have nothing to be sorry for."

Tim blinked up at him, body shuddering. "I didn't keep her safe," he croaked. "I couldn't stop her."

Bruce's palm lay against his back, taking up more space than his entire shoulder blade. Tim didn't mind. The man tilted his head, meeting his eyes, looking stern. Tim shrank back, but Bruce held firm. "You listen to me," he said. "Stephanie's choices are her own. You cannot take on Steph's choices. _You are not responsible for her_."

Tim shook his head, ready to protest, but Bruce clasped his hand on his other shoulder.

"Do not argue. I love you, and my love is not contingent on you making her behave. It never has, and it never will. Do you understand me?"

Tim squeezed his eyes shut. It wasn't true. Bruce was just in shock from the evening, he didn't mean any of those things. Tim was nothing, less than nothing, he was a placeholder, he didn't really matter, and he was fine with that, it was fine it was fine it was fine—

"Timothy Jackson, you open your eyes and look at me."

Tim wrenched his eyes open, tears still flowing. Bruce's brows were high, face searching his. And then—

He smiled softly.

"I love you, kiddo."

A large thumb brushed at Tim's face, and Tim couldn't help it: He leaned into it.

"Do you understand me?" he asked, eyes still focused on him. Tim nodded his head, lip trembling. Large hands cupped his face. "Do you believe me?" Bruce asked softly.

The boy's face crumpled. He fell forward onto Bruce's chest, sobbing. The man held him close.

"You take care of yourself, Tim Drake," he whispered. He dragged a hand through the boy's tangled locks. "Because somebody loves you."

* * *

He opened the door to find Dick storming out, footfalls clanging down the foyer.

"You need to talk to her," Dick spat, yanking his keys off the side table. "Because I am done. I'm done with this entire fucking situation, I'm leaving."

Bruce shut the door behind him, quickly following his eldest son to the door. Dick had a temper, but rarely went into rages anymore, especially regarding family. Ever since—

Bruce's throat went right. He held his breath in his chest, then exhaled slowly.

Ever since—_Jason_—Dick had tried to do better. He kept a firmly cool head, sometimes nearly causing harm to himself in his self-censure.

"What's wrong?" he asked, keeping his voice low. Tim had only just calmed down and, while he didn't want to shush Dick, he also didn't want to upset Tim again.

Dick whirled around, unknowing and uncaring. "It's bullshit, it's all such _bullshit!_" he shouted. "Things haven't been the same, you know that, I know that, hell, even fucking Vicki Vale knows that! It's never going to be the same! But that doesn't mean that rules still don't matter, that we don't keep each other safe, and I hate this, Bruce, I hate everything that's happened and I hate that we're stuck in this rut since—since—" He stumbled, but continued quickly, "And things are never going to change but that doesn't mean it has to be like this and I _hate_ this so much."

Bruce opened his mouth to reply, but Dick kept going.

"And it's such a pile of shit," he said, striding furiously to the door and wrenching it open, "that this even happened, that you don't even care about what she did. It's such bullshit, it's such _fucking_ bullsh—"

Bruce's voice stopped him.

"_What did she do_."


	19. won't last a day without you part 1

**Summer**

The thing about Stephanie was that she demanded attention wherever she went. Grocery stores, sidewalks, WE cafeterias... You name it, she had stamped her shrill voice over it. Which was a good thing, Bruce mused, when one wanted to find her. Girl had never heard of volume control in her life.

But this demand for attention apparently went out the window when illness was concerned.

It had taken three days for either Bruce or Alfred to notice that she wasn't out and about in her usual way, and her pale, sweaty face hadn't boded well.

"One would think," said Alfred, looking circumspectly at the thermometer, "that you would have the good sense not to catch the flu in the _summertime_."

"What can I say," Stephanie croaked, "all the cool kids were doing it."

"Is that so?"

She nodded, fiddling her thumbs atop her comforter. "Randi Kluge was throwing up the other day," she told him. "We thought she was just on her period, but turns out her mom had been to Peru and went through the JFK Airport." She wrinkled her nose. "Which, is, you know. Gross."

"Indubitably." Alfred handed over two pills and a glass of water. Steph chucked them back, swallowing them dry, then sheepishly drank the water when Alfred raised a brow.

Worse than the initial silence was the fact that she was a good patient. This was terrible, for every time she followed Alfred's instruction the man would tilt his head just so and cast such a _look_ at Bruce as if to say "At least that's one less fool in the family."

Bruce, who felt like a rebellious adolescent under that mustache-clad smirk, excused himself to go on patrol.

Which worked for one night. Alfred appeared at the top of the stairs, explaining in even tones that, while he was sure that Master Bruce no doubt appreciated his efforts, tomorrow was grocery shopping day and Alfred really couldn't be spared from the task. Thus it was deemed that Bruce would keep an eye on Stephanie, for as long as was required.

Bruce didn't...mind, exactly. But the last time he had been with a sick kid, in the manor, was with—

That didn't matter, he told himself sternly. He gripped his fists, digging his fingers into his palms. He was staying present. He had a sick kid and he was staying present.

He gazed at the hall wall outside his study, newly painted blue. The designer had described it as "Sea Wind" and Bruce had believed her. Or rather, Alfred had believed her. Bruce was still drowning in a sea of his own at the time, and when he broke water he found several places in his home different and unrecognizable. He couldn't bring himself to be upset with Alfred over it. He knew the man was trying to help, trying to snap him out of the black fugue that he willingly swallowed every night and then bathed in every day. Alfred had never grieved the same way Bruce did; when Mr. and Mrs. Wayne had died he spent hours cleaning the house, almost as if he cleansed the rooms of dust that he could reverse time and find the two of them laughing in a corner or behind a curtain.

Two feet pattered across the carpet, and Bruce was brought back to his reality.

Stephanie stood, arms crossed, face unimpressed. "You can go," she told him, unraveling her hair from twin braids. "I know Alfred told you to stay but I'm fine. I haven't thrown up once today and my fever is fading. I'll be better by tomorrow."

Bruce stuck his tongue on the side of his cheek and nodded, knowing that if he spoke she would take whatever he said the wrong way. She huffed, walking over to the chair opposite him. Her red nightshirt dwarfed her, and he felt his eyebrows draw together at the team number. He didn't even know she _liked_ football. Number 9 was...Chris Campbell?

For Lord's sake—

He sat back, disgruntled. He didn't keep up but even he knew that Campbell fumbled every game. He told her so, and was rewarded by a vicious defense.

"—and it's not as if Jones and Hernandez can catch, so it's not his fault!" she finished, face flushed. She drew her knees up to her chin, feet tucked beneath the red fabric so that she looked like an angry, square crab. "Go away, I don't want to talk to you anymore."

"This is _my_ study," he rebutted.

"But I'm _your_ daughter," she said. "That means you have to share. It's my turn to have it."

Bruce opened his mouth to reply, then cut himself off when he felt the spreading warmth in his chest. It wasn't often that Stephanie acknowledged the fact that she was his; in fact, this would be one of the first times she had in a non-negative fashion since coming to live with him.

"How are you feeling?" he asked after a moment.

"Well enough to bite someone, infect them all up, like a werewolf." She lifted her chin. "Aoowoooooo."

"Ah."

She pouted. "I'm bored," she told him, legs shooting out, socks wiggling off her feet. "I want to do something."

"Alfred said you have to rest."

"I _am_ resting. I have been resting. If I get anymore rest, my body will think that that's its new state and just die."

Bruce leaned back on the sofa, crossing his ankles and rolling back his shoulders. "Pick up your socks, then," he ordered, rogue objects white against the wood floor.

"No."

He closed his eyes.

"Bruce," she whined. "I'm bored."

He sighed, opening his eyes. "Then read something," he suggested.

"Ew." She wrinkled her nose. "You know I don't read."

"Then start."

"I read all the books I needed to when I was eleven," she said, nose in the air. "If I read anymore it will just be greedy."

"So you know everything you need to know?"

She nodded. "Exactly. I read practically the entire children's section at the library, and then I moved on. How-to manuals were my favorite."

He didn't reply.

"There's something nice about being treated like you're an absolute idiot by a book," she concluded. "Because the book won't come back around and remind you what you didn't know before it, like people do. The book doesn't know. Books don't know anything but what they know, so I know way more than a book does."

"I see."

"I know about drain pipes, kite flying, how to make a bomb," she said cheerfully. "Entomology, divorce, the U.S. mailing system...never got around to the historical non-fiction section, but who even cares about history."

"Your history grades might," he said, comfortably settling further into the sofa. He could see the frown she was sending him in the corner of her eye.

"I make good grades."

"I've seen your records."

"Just because I'm not like—" she cut herself off. The study was silent for several moments. "And anyways," she began again, "the only reason for that C in fourth grade wasn't because of anything academic, it was because I punched Willie Nilsson in the throat."

That got his attention. "What?"

"He tried to punch Jia first!" she shrieked defensively. "They only got mad because he could barely speak for a couple of days. I didn't mean to hit him that hard," she admitted, looking ashamed. "I just didn't want him to hit anyone else."

He opened his mouth to tell her that he once hospitalized a kid in high school, but closed it with a click. He hadn't told any of his kids that. Not that he was hiding it, per se, just that it had never...come up. Dick and Jason had gotten into their fair share of fights, yet he had never felt the need to comfort them for the act of fighting in of itself.

"Did you learn that from a book?" he asked instead.

"I actually saw it on the news," she told him. "Dad was featured so he recorded it, but there was a segment afterwards with Riddler, and Batman punched him in the throat so he couldn't talk. I paid close attention," she said assuringly, "I practiced it on my mom's old Walker doll. I can do all sorts of things."

"I believe you."

She wrinkled her nose at his patronizing, scrunching up her toes on her sock and flinging it at him. It flopped through the air like a disappointed cloud. Bruce ignored her when she tried the other sock. She laughed when it hit his desk, and then the laugh turned into a cough.

"Do you need water?" he asked, almost hesitantly. She shook her head, swallowing her wheezes. She cleared her throat.

"I can read palms, you know," she told him, grinning under her bangs.

Bruce raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement, but did not look at her.

"Well?"

"Well what," he said sleepily, gazing into the empty grate.

"Well," she said impatiently, "let me see your hand!"

He closed his eyes and did not respond. Several moments went by. A large sigh was heard from the corner. Bruce let a small smile pass his lips.

Two small hands suddenly grasped his, pushing back his fingers with a _crack_.

"Hm," he grunted.

"This is your heart line," she said, tracing the first line just below his fingers. "It has to do with your relationships. Hmmmm," she peered closer. "Definitely some trauma there."

Bruce conceded to this, tipping his head.

"Have you ever loved anyone?" she asked suddenly, not looking up. He could tell that this was not an unpremeditated question.

"Yes," he said truthfully. "I've loved many people."

"Hah! You've been a slut. Knew it."

Bruce went to pinch her cheek, but she moved as far as she could out of his reach. "I love Alfred, and Dick, and you, and—"

"Jason," she muttered, trying to sound reticent and failing.

Bruce's chest shuddered. "Yes," he said after a moment, trying to sound calm but failing. "Yes, I love Jason."

"I'm pretty sure I love Kevin the intern," she said.

"I'm pretty sure Kevin the intern is twenty-two," he retorted.

"Age is just a number, Bruce," she said breezily.

Bruce made a move as to take his hand away, but she held on as tight as she could.

"No, no wait," she said in slight exertion. "This is—this—BRUCE! Let me have it!" Bruce obliged with a dry chuckle. "Thank you. This is your head line." She pointed to the line below the heart line. "It has to do with your intellectual pursuits, but also your life lessons. Huh." She peered closer at it. "There's some breaks in the line. You've got some trauma there too. The life line," she paused, looking up at him, "is the life line."

"Eloquent," said Bruce.

"Shut up. Some people like to say it's about independence or whatever, but that's bullshit. It's the life line. Yours is really long," she commented, tracing it with her finger. "It goes all the way down to your wrist. You'll probably die in your sleep."

I won't, Bruce didn't say. I'm lucky to be alive right now. I'm lucky to be looking at you. If I had had my way, I wouldn't be. Alfred would have had to bury me. He will have to bury me. That's why he can hardly bear look at me sometimes.

"And look! You have an Apollo line. Not many people have those."

He looked at where she pointed. "I think that's a scar," he told her honestly.

"It still counts."

"It doesn't."

"Hey, who read the how-to manual at eleven?" she demanded. "Did _you_ give fortunes under the slide at recess?"

"No, I do it under the conference table at board meetings."

She gave a bark of laughter. Then she snorted and coughed, which turned into several bursts of coughing. Her wheezing filled the air and Bruce sat stock-still, perched on the edge of his seat. It was just a cough. She was fine. She was fine, it was just a cough. It was just a— _smoke_. Smoke in the air and the wheezing and he was limp, he was _limp_, his boy wasn't—

"Gah!"

He snapped back into the present. His mouth was dry.

"I'm going to shove a paperweight down my throat," Stephanie complained, rubbing her neck.

He swallowed.

"What does an Apollo line do?" he asked, grounding himself on her face, intent on making her frown disappear.

She smiled, brightening up the room. "It has to do with fame and glory," she said proudly. Then she deflated. "Figures you would have one. I don't."

"You would like fame and glory?" he asked. His hand gripped hers, now.

"I would like attention," she corrected him, drawing away. "Fame and glory are close enough."

He gave a disbelieving huff. "Not worth it," he told her.

"Maybe not to _you_," she shot back. "You just don't know what it's like not to have it." She flopped against the back of the couch, head lolling. "I'm booooored," she announced to the room, heedless of her volume.

"Hello, b—" Bruce suddenly stood, not finishing his sentence. He perused the bookshelf, withdrawing a book and tossing it in her lap. "Here."

"'DOS for Dummies'?" she read off the title, nose wrinkling.

"Do you know about computers?"

"No, but—"

"Have at it," he instructed, sitting down at his desk.

She opened her mouth to protest, glanced down at the book, closed it, then settled down to read it. Her legs wiggled out to a stretch and there was, surprisingly, silence. Bruce felt his eyebrows draw up, almost astonished that that had actually worked.

How-to manuals. Who would have thought?

Now he knew what to do when he had to bring her to the office. The interns would probably be disappointed that she wouldn't serenade them with pop songs transposed into poor Spanish any longer (goodbye, Kevin), but at least he could go about his day without worrying where she was. His lips quirked. Though he did have to admit, it was pretty funny to find the doodles she had been faxing to Lex Luthor's direct office. He had scolded her, of course; Stephanie was the type of child who would judge her actions on whether or not she would get a laugh, not from her conscience. Not that she didn't _have_ one, mind. He had found her sulking not a half an hour later, and she at once demanded that he be kind to the secretary and not blame her for the doodles, especially not the "dog shit one." When he questioned just which one that was, she buttoned her lips, unwilling to speak further.

Bruce let a soft chuckle pass his lips. For as insistent as she was that she was well and truly grown up, it was endearing to see how childhood still had its grip on her. She was like Dick, in that way. All his eldest had to do was move his head a particular way or wrinkle his brow, and suddenly he was eight again. Dick, if he could hear his thoughts, would hotly protest, but he didn't understand how when you have children you always see them as children. That was, Bruce supposed, flipping a page, his problem. He always saw his children as children, always wished to sweep in and take care of every scraped knee. Otherwise he would leave them to their own devices and judgements, and see how well that—

_Smoke_.

He clenched his fists.

Blinking slowly, controlled, he looked up and surveyed the room. Same as always. Same as always, save for the ottoman Jay used to sit on. After he—Bruce couldn't—

He blinked.

He should paint "Sea Wind" on the walls.

...It was quiet. Opening his mouth to inquire over Stephanie's thoughts on the subject, he found a reason for the silence. She had fallen asleep, book tucked beneath her chin, hair a rat's nest above her.

Bored indeed.

Bruce stood, walking over cautiously. When she didn't stir he withdrew the book and set it on a side table. Her hand was hanging off the sofa, and he knelt beside her, taking her small hand in his. He held back a snort. Palm-reading. He had no doubt that, while in the Gotham public school system, she had found multiple ways to _enhance_ her education. He musingly looked over her hand. Heart line, head line, life line. The last one was rather short and faint. And she was right: she didn't have an Apollo line. He snorted. He hadn't bothered to tell her that it was all bullshit; he had before and she always harangued him about believing in nothing, unlike her, who believed in everything and was a "Lutheran and a Buddhist and everything in between all mixed into one."

He set down her hand and slid his own beneath her knees and back, hauling her up.

Oh.

He looked down at her, face full with youth and repose. This was the first time he had held her properly since they met. She was so ornery most of the time, so cleverly disengaging. She claimed to be a people person and yet avoided him like the plague. Well, most of the time.

He cradled her body, so much tinier than he realized, to his chest. She had sought him out tonight, had wanted to spend time with him. Had even tried to show him something new, share something with him. And he had repaid her with enforced reading. He grunted, heading out of the study and up the stairs. He was always messing up. Whether it be with his children or others, relationships escaped him. It seemed that just when he learned the language they were speaking, they switched to something else and he was always parsing through with gaps of vocabulary and fumbling speeches.

The stairs creaked on the last step. He never had fixed that. Everyone in the household just avoided the middle part of that step and stuck to the edges. Except Stephanie. It seemed that she not only made noise wherever she went, but it was her intention to do so. 'Look at me,' she seemed to say every waking moment. 'Look what I can do, look at me!'

She shifted in his arms. Bruce paused.

Girls are a little different, he realized, gazing down at her and pulling her closer. She wasn't going to get much bigger than this. Whereas with the boys he knew that the time in which they were small was short and constantly drawing to a close, that wasn't the case with Stephanie. For all her great-grandma-Laura-Elizabeth-Wayne looks, she took after her mother, and the gene pool wasn't looking too favorable on height.

He shouldered her bedroom door open, taking note of the purple lavalamp stationed on her desk. He slid her onto her bed, one hand awkwardly holding back the comforter until she was settled. Did she need to take medicine? He searched his brain for Alfred's instructions, going through every word, then minutely shook his head. She took care of herself very well in sickness, she wasn't like Dick or Ja—

He brushed her golden hair out of her face, lavalamp illuminating one side. He had told her that he loved her earlier, and that was true. Even with her "dog shit" doodles.

Bruce exhaled a laugh. He took her hand, small and light and would be forever so. He looked down at her palm. Heart line, head line, life line. Silly girl.

He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, then stood and left her to her rest. Once he made it to the door, he looked back at her. He smiled.

Silly girl.

* * *

**Summer, two years later**

Her hand was cold. Her hand was cold. Her hand was cold.

He could feel himself gazing down at her in horror. Nightwing was shouting, voice slamming like cymbals in his ear. But Bruce couldn't hear.

Her hand was cold.

"_I can read palms you know," she told him, grinning under her bangs_.

Her hair was matted with blood. Her eyes were swollen and closed. Her face—

"MOVE!"

Figures in white swam in his vision. Hands grasped him round the shoulders, the same voice saying a word over and over.

"_B?" came the small voice from the study. Dickie's little head poked out from around the corner. His face was still stained with tears, cheeks thick with childhood and loss. "B?"_

"B? B? Come on!"

Dick. Dickie.

"Nightw..."

"There you are," Nightwing said tersely. "Don't lose it. Don't you dare lose it again, B. They're going to try to save her. Don't lose it."

He shook his head. He tried to step out of Nightwing's hold, but his grip tightened.

"Don't look," the man instructed. "B, I swear to God, don't look."

She's mine, Bruce opened his mouth to explain. I've only had her for a small time and I have to take her home. I can carry her. She's mine.

But Dick was filling up his vision, sweaty black hair fuzzing up his brain until that's all he can see. "Don't look," he said firmly. His fingers dug into him. "Don't look, B. Don't look."

And, God forgive him, he doesn't.


	20. won't last a day without you part 2

They pinned her, and Stephanie could feel his knees on the back of her legs. A hand snaked out around her wrist, chilling her.

"Leave us," he commanded. They left, bodies weaving towards the door like cockroaches.

Black Mask guided her down, perched on his knee as if he was Santa Claus and this was the mall. She wouldn't know; she had never been. Stephanie wondered if this was her version of hysterical, thinking about things that didn't matter so she could pretend she couldn't hear his breathing.

She sat stiffly, limbs locked as she tried to present herself as loose, calm, unbothered. Over her shoulder, black eyes glittered.

"You're a very noisy little girl," he told her, leaning back in his seat.

Stephanie bit her lip and said nothing.

"Oh? You have nothing to say?" He waved his hand lazily. "But on camera you spoke for hours, speech after speech after speech."

That wasn't true. She had thrown the lid off Gotham sentiment in one interview. The news just played it over and over, pitching the volume when she called the villains "vermin that plague the people of the city." She remembered the blazing feeling she had had when she spoke the next words: "This is our city, ours, and we have to show we're not afraid of it." Alfred had phoned Bruce and Bruce had nearly gone ballistic, worry tearing off every edge of him. He had shown up at the studio, barely managing to keep up his persona. He breathed deeply once they were in the back of the car.

"I've told you," he had said wearily. "You can't do this. You can't say whatever you want."

"If I don't say it, who will?"

Black Mask lifted his knee, sliding her closer against his waist. Her body felt like tv static, like it had been torn and chewed by a dog and all that was left of her was mush.

"Hm?" he murmured softly, soothingly, like she was much younger than she was and had fallen, scraping her knee. Like she was being comforted and petted instead of being held against her will by a man, a stranger with the smell of blood on his breath. "What were you doing out by yourself, hm?" His arms circled around her, and Stephanie clenched her fists to stave off a shudder. Her dad had never held her like this. He had always shouted at her when she cried. And Bruce—

Hands cupped her chin, fingers deceptively soft, and Stephanie at once remembered the time Batman had done the same thing. Only then his grip was bruising, and she a victim of his frustration. Somehow, that night hadn't seemed as scary as right now.

"Where's your Gotham courage now, girl?"

Tears stung at her eyes. She swallowed. She wasn't going to cry. She wasn't going to cry. _She wasn't going to cry._

His hands wrapped around her again and drew her close, rough synthetic cheek against hers in some bastardized form of a cuddle. "I can't have people running their mouths, you see," he said indulgently. "Even if they are rich little brats."

But I'm not, she thought, mind glazing over images like kraft macaroni and eggs half-sale. Her mom on the couch. Her dad throwing a plate. Stringing together shoelaces in the darkness of the closet. Tim sitting on her bicycle, Cass snorting spray cheese, Dick teaching her how to juggle. Bruce—

"I'm going to make you regret it," he whispered into her hair. "I'm going to make your father regret it. I'm going to make this city wail as it has never wailed before."

She stiffened, mind finally catching up. Black Mask felt this, and held her tight, bones against his. But then he loosened his hold, chuckling. He bounced her a couple of times, and her feet jiggled in the air by his dress pants, shoes just barely scraping the floor.

"You're going to have to die," he said after a moment. He drew back and looked into her eyes, grin fierce. "You understand that, don't you?"

Somehow, with the backlight framing her eyelashes, she did.

His hands were in her hair, tangled in her golden locks. He gripped the back of her head and pitched it forward, in the pantomime of a nod. "Good girl," he praised her.

"_Good girl."_

She snapped.

Stephanie shoved away from him, shriek thrumming beneath her veins. She was awake, she was awake, _she was awake._

"Maybe I'll die," she hissed, hands clawing on his grip, nails digging into his skin. "But there will always be another right after me, someone with enough courage for a moment, an _instant_." She bared her teeth. "And those moments are going to add up, and multiply like the goddamn ants you think we are. And when you feel safe in their fear of you, they're going to break down your door, Roman Sionis."

He stilled. Then he smiled.

* * *

There was blood crusted on her upper lip, and she couldn't remember when that happened. They kept saying something about sending a message, and Stephanie didn't know if that was a real thing, if that was a real message, or if that was an excuse to keep doing anything they wanted to her.

But here, right now, they were leaving her alone.

The room almost looked like a hotel, distant and impersonal. Serviceable. None of the men were looking at her.

She didn't know if she would prefer if they looked at her. It might be worse.

She briefly thought about screaming. Screaming and screaming and screaming. But that would end one of two ways. They would shut her up, callused hands against her jaw, blood in her mouth. Or they would simply act like she wasn't screaming, like she didn't even exist. Like the corner she was existing in was a hole, and she only became real when Roman Sionis put his hands on her.

She blinked. There was a white washcloth in front of her face, dripping a bit.

"Wash your face," someone said. Deeper voice. She stared at the washcloth. That voice sighed, then the damp washcloth lifted, brushing across her upper lip. It stung.

Her hands didn't work anymore. She had spent so long clenching them, like clenching her teeth so she wouldn't cry. She didn't want to cry. But now she didn't think she could cry, even if someone asked her to. She was never really good at doing what people asked her to do. That's why she was where she was.

It felt like it had been a long time since she had been outside. She wasn't sure of the time, or how long she had existed within this space. There were no clocks here. Stephanie wasn't sure if she would look at them even if there were.

"We're sending a message," argued that voice with another. "They're going to know, she doesn't need to look like crap. Boss said to clean her up. Yeah," the tone was a little skeptical, a little bitter. But it didn't go on.

Her hair was tugged down. She could see it in the corner of her eye. Last time she had seen it, there was blood in it. It rusted at certain parts, making it look like strawberries.

She was not going to see Barbara again.

That's okay, though, wasn't it.

Stephanie hadn't had a lot of dreams. If it was going to be anyone, at least it was her. The world wouldn't be missing much. Black Mask had given her a choice. Her or Bruce. She chose her. She wasn't that important. She wasn't, no matter what Cass had insisted. It would be okay. Maybe time and space would just continue on like this, where it felt like plastic between her teeth. Every time she blinked it was like the world was whiting out, like a dream.

"I'm going to braid your hair, all right?"

It didn't matter what you did in dreams. You'd wake up and nothing had ever really happened. It didn't matter, so Stephanie leaned into the soft ministrations of the brush. It didn't matter because no one would know, and this voice and hands could keep a secret. They could know that she felt beaten up, like something had crawled inside her soul and chewed it up, two-bit candy stuck underneath a shoe. They could know that she felt awful, that she wasn't connected anymore. That she wasn't really Stephanie, not really. Stephanie was somewhere else, somewhere a long time ago. She was watching the sun set out the window, Alfred setting plates on the table behind her. Or maybe she was Stephanie from long ago, the one who sat on the tiny front step with scabs on her knees, the one who waited.

Waited.

She had done that a lot. She was doing it now, but she wouldn't have to for long. She knew it. She knew it. She knew it.

"I'm very tired."

It was like the words came from someone else, or a corner of the room.

"I know," said that deeper voice, the buzzing of an old-time movie. Mom and she had watched Casablanca every Christmas she didn't work. Stephanie didn't think she would get to do that again.

"You're being really brave. Just a little bit longer."

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting. She could do that.

A warped lock peeled in front of her vision, like tassels. Dreadlock.

She reached out to touch it, fingers curling around it.

"I'm very tired."

A cluck of the tongue, a strange sound that she hadn't heard much. "I know," that deep voice said, exasperated but trying its best to be soothing.

She didn't know why it was trying. She wanted it to try, though. Maybe it was the last bit of her that worked, the bit that hadn't floated away. She was tethered here, a yellow balloon, hands on either side of her face, braiding up her hair.

"You just need to hold on a bit longer. We're going to send a message and you need to look—" it cut itself off. "He wants you to look. Well."

Those hands got gentler, one on the back of her head. Cupping it to keep her brains in. But it didn't need to. Balloon girls don't have brains.

"I'm tired." Her voice cracked.

"I know, honey. I know."

She didn't cry. Not even in a dream.

She leaned her head back, feeling warmth behind her temples, and closed her eyes.

It didn't matter in dreams.

* * *

"If you had just trained her in the first place, none of this would ever have happened!"

Dick tried not to look up. He was working. None of them had time for this. They had no _time_. Tim couldn't have forgotten that. He shouldn't have. But he wasn't being Tim right now, he was being some sort of—

Grieving, his mind supplied.

The split part of him, the one still feeling things, was hissing. Why would he be grieving? She's not gone yet. What right did he have to grieve? Now was not the time. They had no _time_.

Something whistled through the air, slamming against the shelves and setting off an orchestra of crashes and shatterings.

"Your fault! It's YOUR FAULT!"

A wet gasp, but Dick wasn't looking at that. He wasn't listening anymore. He had no time.

"I won't forgive you," Tim's voice cried, the ugly, broken sound that he kept inside of himself, curled tight around his ribs. "I won't forgive you, Bruce. I won't forgive you."

Dick refocused his efforts, mind swept up in one goal. One goal.

He just needed time.

* * *

Stephanie, or whoever she was right now, knew something that other people didn't know.

Not even the voice with the gentle hands and dreadlocks knew it. She didn't think it did. If it did, it probably wouldn't tell her to keep being brave. It probably wouldn't let her lean back on it, chest warm against the blood swirling around in her head. She hadn't realized so much blood had been in her head. It was inside of her, wailing and wanting to be let out. She had agreed that it would. It was being let out. It wasn't strawberries, though.

That's partially how she knew.

What day was it?

She couldn't open her eyes. The wet trickle by her ear was whispering, or was that him? It must be. Different hands, different voice. Not dreadlocks.

She wasn't crying. She didn't do that anymore. She had forgotten the last time she had.

She was forgetting a lot.

That's also how she knew.

All the packages in her brain were slipping away, and she couldn't remember anyone besides Dreadlocks and Not Dreadlocks. It was like she had left her body behind, and stepped into the clouds. Nothing made sense, but it didn't hurt. Stephanie didn't mind, as long as it didn't hurt. The numbness was nerve-wrecking, but she knew she wasn't really numb. Just like when she shivered, she knew it wasn't really from cold.

For a moment, a voice (familiar?) echoed in her brain, outlining the symptoms of shock. Fuzzy blue light from the computer screens. Kaleidoscope vision from chairs. Someone strong, almost not even real beside her.

Not even real. It won't be.

Stephanie knew something other people didn't.


	21. won't last a day without you part 3

The call came in on the private line.

"He's got her in Frisker Warehouse," the modulated voice said. "Fifteen minutes. Medical ahead of you."

It clicked off before they could trace it.

* * *

"You're not bleeding the same way."

When Stephanie was a little girl, some neighbors took her and her mom to church. It must have been a special occasion. Easter? She could remember stained glass. She had watched the light come in through the colors, how they made her feel warm inside, like she was finally touched in her stomach. Like hot chocolate, only more silvery. Like goosebumps, or the cool breath of someone when—

She couldn't breathe.

The clang of metal against the floor echoed. "Might as well take your eyes now," he said. "Or maybe I'll just take a hand, they always scream when that happens."

She remembered the pastor's voice, loud and echoing, tone strident even under the pews. She had hid, knees up to her ears, not caring that her dress got dirty. The dust made her safer. No one was going to get her down there, the cleaners didn't care about it, so the devil wouldn't bother.

Mom hadn't made her get out, and Stephanie wondered if maybe she didn't make her because she was afraid too.

The pastor had said something about angels and fire, and she buried her head into her knees and covered her ears because she _didn't want to hear it_, she never wanted to know about it ever again, she wanted—

She couldn't breathe.

"I could start with the tongue, for my sake." A snicker. "Though I've shut you up for good now. Didn't even have to break your jaw, hm? Good." The footsteps crept closer, barely scuffing against the floor. "You have been a good girl for me. Of course, I did have to give you a smack or two, so you'd behave. But no one will hold that against me."

She could hear his smile. It was like she was in two places at once, five and under the pews and fifteen and here, still and unmoving.

There was an unnatural silence outside the door.

"But you never cried for me," came the exhale of disappointment. "You cried when Markus brushed your hair, but you couldn't cry for me?" He yanked her head back, fingers twisted in her hair, and she gagged on the blood in her mouth.

She couldn't breathe.

His brow wrinkled. "Oh, baby," he breathed. He released her and her head dropped into his hand, fingers crawling up her jaw.

There was an unnatural silence outside the door.

"Maybe I just didn't hit you hard enough," he mused. "I didn't want to mess up that pretty face. I should have, but I wanted them to know. To see your face and know what I had done to you."

She could still hear the pastor's voice, tremulous and hard._ "And the sixth angel sounded his trumpet, and I heard a voice coming from the four horns of the golden altar that is before God."_

He clicked his tongue. "Although," he said, twisting her head every which way, surveying her.

Stephanie closed her eyes.

"It's such a waste of our time together. And the entire city is looking for you. Tell me," he released her chin and stepped away. She could feel his breath on her skin. "Do you think your daddy will know who you are, just by your sweet golden hair? Hm?"

She couldn't breathe.

"_It said to the sixth angel who had the trumpet, 'Release the four angels who are bound at the great river Euphrates.'"_

She heard him shift, and she blinked her eyes open. He was walking over to the other side of the room. His footsteps took up the whole room.

There was an unnatural silence outside the door.

"I know the answer to my question," he continued, as if she had said something, as if she wasn't strung up like a marionette, blood heavy in her mouth. "It's compromise. I'll take your tongue out. They'll know who you are, and they'll know just what got you here." He chuckled, picking up the pliers.

She couldn't breathe.

His eyes burned across her. "What were you saying about courage, darling?" He waited. She didn't say anything. "Come on, baby, finish your speech. Tell me what's going to happen. I've waited all this time." He gestured to the empty room with the metal pliers. "Do you hear anyone breaking anything down?"

There was an unnatural stillness outside the door.

He laughed. "No one is coming."

She couldn't breathe.

"_And the four angels who had been kept ready for this very hour and day and month and year—"_

She couldn't breathe.

But Stephanie lifted her head. Roman Sionis returned her gaze.

There was an unnatural stillness outside the door.

He grinned. "Good girl," he said, pride crawling over every word. He took a step forward.

The door burst open.

"—_were released to kill a third of mankind."_

* * *

**Bang!**

* * *

Red was everywhere.

Hands, eyes, mouth. It was below her feet, like streams from the garden hose when mom tried to drown ants.

Red glinted above her, hands on her, pulling her until she collapsed. But the hands wouldn't leave, they just gripped harder and pulled her up. Words in the air, noise. The world swung like a pendulum. The grandfather clock.

She looked down and she saw red and she saw dreadlocks and if she could breathe Stephanie thought she might cry.

The world swung again, but it all swam together. The seconds creaked to hours, and she—

She couldn't—she couldn't _see—_

The panic came quickly, burning through her body like an acid wave. But it moved just as quickly, replaced by a lethargy.

The world became darker than she thought possible. She couldn't hear anything at all and at the same time heard a lone shriek in her ears, muffled.

Stephanie kept struggling for breath but it wasn't happening

It wasn't happening.

She knew she was on the ground next, though she wasn't sure how. All recognition had left her. In a fuzzy way, she knew what was happening. She didn't think of not being alone. She wasn't thinking about anything, except the black and the stuffed silence and the creeping sleep that burned.

It burned it burned it burned.

Until it didn't.

Oh.

With her last bit of effort, Stephanie closed her eyes.

It was okay.

* * *

**6 weeks later**

They were crowding around her and pretending not to crowd around her. Bruce was somewhere out of her vision, like always. He never let her see him. But whatever. He was there. Stephanie was surprised that he was there and Alfred wasn't.

"We appreciate you meeting with us again," a Gotham PD officer said, trying to meet her eyes. She didn't look up, and instead swung her feet beneath the chair. They scudded against the table leg.

Thud, thud, thud.

The officers waited for her reply. She didn't say anything. She had already explained everything. She had told them in the hospital room, and again when she got home a week ago. Bruce kept letting them back in. She didn't know why.

Someone muttered something, and she looked up. Expectant yet gentle faces looked back at her. She blinked, grabbing whatever was on the table. Stephanie looked down. "You want to know who saved me," she said, ripping the paper napkin in front of her into tiny pieces.

"We do," admitted an older cop, someone who probably would play football with his kids.

She didn't respond and started folding a new napkin like origami.

Minutes went by.

"Red Hood."

"What?"

"Red Hood saved me."

"You've said that," a female officer began. "Can you remember anything he said to you? A motive?" After a minute, she amended and explained, "A reason why he saved you?"

Stephanie shrugged.

"Maybe," the older one said slowly, as if suggestion would change reality. She looked at his name tag. Officer Peak. "Once you have more rest, your brain might...catch up." Before she could bother to respond, he continued, "How do you know it was the Red Hood?"

"You mean, how would I know, because I was dying?"

Several faces nodded, still sympathetic. Officer Peak's eyes weren't derisive; in fact, he looked like he wanted to help her, wanted to change what had happened so much that he was willing to follow this case until the end.

Not that there was any need.

Stephanie blinked. "I just know what I know," she replied. "And I know Red Hood saved me." She pushed the folded napkin away from her and closed her eyes.

Murmurs continued around her, but she just shut her eyes tighter. Maybe it was childish, but she was tired. She knew they wanted to help, but no one would leave her alone.

The scrapping of chairs, and footsteps clicked against the hard floor. She breathed in deeply.

A shadow paused over her, and she paused. Every bone in her body stilled, even the shivery pain in her chest froze as she waited. But then the shadow moved on, footsteps silent, an she exhaled.

When she finally opened her eyes, she was alone in the kitchen. Alfred walked in a second later, and she could see him washing his hands in the corner of her eye. She closed her eyes again, and laid her head against the table.

She breathed in again.

* * *

Life moved on, in a weird way. Normal way, but a weird normal way, like it was one of those pantomime shows her dad took her to when she was six. Everyone acted off of her, always searching her out, waiting to see her next move. So Stephanie smiled and acted normal, because she _wanted_ it to be normal. She wanted life back, life like it was before. And if everyone (not that it was everyone. Tim and Alfred were the only ones that stuck around after a couple of weeks, Cass had disappeared, Dick could barely—) watched her, acted like she was going to fall apart, then she would simply work harder.

"I wonder if I'll have to take remedial classes this fall," she mentioned to Alfred. The kitchen window was open, and it was uncommonly chilly for summer. "Or something. Ms. Davis was so crazy about homework, but no one has said anything to me about making up work."

Alfred kept scrubbing the dishes. She watched his shoulder blades move, tense in their work. He had stayed with her, had stayed with her through her recovery. Even when she was home, he didn't go out for groceries. He stayed. She almost felt bad, but instead she felt...relieved. She wasn't alone. Sure, mentally everyone is alone, but Alfred was there, physically, always in the house. Someday she would have to repay his kindness, but she let herself feel the small comfort of his constant presence. It didn't feel like he stayed because he thought she'd be stupid or something. It felt like he stayed because he wanted to.

Stephanie had learned early on that no one stayed.

She hummed, rearranging the centerpiece. Candle apples. "Can I get gel pens? Sparkly ones. I know it doesn't make a huge difference, but I like taking notes with them for English. Ms. Davis didn't let us use gel pens, but I'll be in a new class this year—at least, I think. They won't make me repeat, right?" She bit her lip. She was in the same grade as Tim, and if _he_ ended up a grade above her when _she_ was older—

Alfred stopped scrubbing. He released the pot, and it clanked down into the sink. He braced his palms against the counter, fingers wet.

"Miss Stephanie," he said, in a voice that was twice as steely as Bruce's ever was, "would you please join me for a moment?"

* * *

The gun didn't feel heavy.

Stephanie shifted her grip carefully, staring at the target. She always thought a gun would feel heavy, because of the whole "can kill a person" and stuff, but it wasn't heavy. Maybe that's why people were able to kill so easily, it almost felt like a toy.

"Shoot," came the instruction over her shoulder. Stephanie pulled the trigger. Alfred observes her, not bothering to shade his eyes from the sun.

She stayed in position, waiting for him to tell her what to do. It was the first time someone had trusted her like this, fully and unconditionally. Her eyes flicked over to him. Maybe he shouldn't have. Stephanie always ruined everything, even when she didn't mean to. Broke her dad, broke her mom, broke Br—

She focused her eyes on the target again, not moving an inch.

"Shoot."

The shot echoed through the forest.

Stephanie's grip didn't shake. It should have. She was tired. Her throat was dry. Her ribs hurt. The nurses told her that she would recover within six weeks, but they still had a phantom ache. Sometimes she woke up at night, tongue heavy in her mouth, feeling the tips of his leather shoes against her chest, hearing the—

"If you are ever in a similar position," Alfred had told her, eyes dark with something she could hardly understand, "you will kill them. Understand?"

She had nodded, because Alfred was trusting her. Alfred was trusting her.

"Your father's methods aside," he had said, voice stone cold. "We will not lose another child in this house."

The bushes rustled to her right, and a squirrel chittered at them. Stephanie didn't move. She wouldn't. Alfred was trusting her.

"Shoot."


End file.
